


Fire on the Ridges

by moscca



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Cults, F/F, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 16:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 64,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11490504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moscca/pseuds/moscca
Summary: You wonder at Delilah, at how she keeps so much power trapped in that human frame. How can she contain something so vast? It feels like an ocean when you are close to her and can sense it pushing at her seams: boundless, unfathomable, unknowable. Perhaps it’s that instinct that compels her to share that power with you and the rest of the coven. A need to distribute it more evenly, to lessen the burden set upon her by the black-eyed god.You like to think that it helps her, having you so near, so full of her influence. You like to think that she needs you anywhere near as much as you need her.-Memoirs of the coven.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, here's my work for the 2017 Dishonored Big Bang! Massive thanks to: addermire-institute and tokismokes/t0ki, for their breathtakingly beautiful art (addermire's is at the beginning, t0ki's is in the middle), ambient-screaming for their wonderful beta work, and carvedwhalebones for organizing this incredible event- we couldn't possibly have done this without your hard work!   
> Title is part of a quote from Cormac McCarthy's The Road. Hope you enjoy it!

“Witchcraft is the recourse of the dispossessed, the powerless, the hungry and the abused. It gives heart and tongue to stones and trees. It wears the rough skin of beasts. It turns on a civilization that knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

              - _The Manifesto of_ _Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

                                                                 

 

You are five years old when you meet your first witch.

The leaves are just beginning to turn in the Month of Harvest when your parents take you to the market square. Voices sound from all about, raucous and clamoring, vending foodstuffs and warm clothing for the winter months that lie ahead. You cling to your mother’s hand as she navigates the crowds, your father trailing sullenly behind. It’s rare for you to be able to spend time with the two of them outside the house, and you treasure each outing like the small adventure it is.

You have yet to begin attending classes with the other children of noble families, so your interactions with others your age have been few and far between. Loneliness and boredom are the predominant emotions of your childhood. In the distance, you see a group of raggedly-dressed youths playing on the bridge, their arms held out from their sides as they balance on the stone railings, laughing and calling out. Your chest aches with the urge to join them, but your parents would never approve. Even at this age, you are beginning to learn their tight limitations of acceptable behavior.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a bookstore, its glass-pane windows piled high with leather-bound volumes, racks of books marked for sale lined up outside its door. Immediately you are drawn to it; you learned to read at three years old, and you’ve long since finished (multiple times over) all the children’s books your parents gave you, to the point where you could probably recite passages from them by heart. You begin to gesture and tug at your mother’s hand, but she only sighs and hurries you away with a “Come along, Breanna.” You’re still staring at the shop’s enticingly open doors when it happens.

From down the busy street, you hear an abrupt, high shriek. The market din from behind you grows in intensity, turning uglier by the second. The sounds of haggling and advertising fade, replaced by the loud shouts of men. Your father reaches you, taking your mother by the arm and muttering something to her as he quickens his pace. When you turn, you catch sight of the shining golden masks of the Overseers.

And now you can see the cause of all the chaos. A group of five Overseers are hauling a screaming woman down the street. It seems to be taking all their strength to contain her as, despite her advanced age, she nearly manages to break away from them a few times. You can hear her calling for help and begging passerby to intervene. At the same time, the Overseers push the crowd back, forcing them to make way.

You hear the words “confirmed witch” shouted as your parents turn to find the cause of the ruckus. You hear something about shrines, something about curses and the Outsider.

You hear “execution”.

The woman must hear it too, if her reaction is anything to go by. She kicks out with renewed vigor, shaking one of the Overseers loose. When the other turns to her, she howls directly into his face, and he reels backward as if hit with a blast of wind. The sound of it rings in your ears, desperate and rage-filled.

And yet her struggles are not enough, and two more of the Overseers close in on her and seize her by the arms, delivering a painful-looking blow to her midsection. You gasp. Your parents are scolding you now, all but dragging you down the street as the Overseers advance and the crowd scatters, but you cannot tear your eyes away from the grey-haired woman with the wild eyes. You recognize her, suddenly, from the herbalist’s shop you’d visited months ago, on a rare errand with your mother. The woman had been behind the counter, weighing out fragrant parcels in her gnarled hands.

With a sharp tug on your arm, your mother manages to pull you into the crowd, which has separated down the middle to make a path for the Overseers. The golden-masked men continue to make their way to the center of the square, pulling the accused witch with them. They’re nearly in front of you now, and the woman raises her head.

It’s as if time slows when she meets your gaze. Her pale blue eyes widen as she peers into your face. The Overseers yell and tug at her arms, but she struggles to stay in place, seeming to recognize you. You take in her mussed hair, her wrinkled face, her worn, stained apron. Yet there’s power there, in her arms and long teeth. Behind her eyes, something else seems to live, concealed in the darkness of her pupils.

And at last she seems to find whatever she’s looking for in you and drops her head, satisfied and resigned. The Overseers lead her further down the road until she’s out of reach. Your parents’ voices fade back into your ears; they’re reprimanding you, threatening to leave you behind the next time they go out.

It all becomes white noise as they lead you away from the square, the remaining crowd tense and muttering. You’re not far away enough to miss the sound of the shot when it rings out in the air, stunning onlookers into silence. You try to look back, confused and frightened, still young enough to not have put the pieces together. The witch’s face still hovers in your mind. Though you don’t know it yet, it will never truly leave you.

~

Books are your only real company for the next few months. Your parents have set a date for you to join the children of their friends in private tutoring sessions, but until then, you are confined to the over-adorned walls of your home, where you devour children’s book after children’s book in your boredom. After the incident in the town square, you’ve become intensely fascinated with the concept of magic, though you know better than to tell your parents about it. You’d managed to squeeze precious little information out of them about the execution- why it happened, who the woman was, what had been her crime. Your mother had taken the opportunity to lecture you on the Seven Strictures, using the public execution as an example of what happens to those who disobey the Abbey and consort with that mysterious figure they call the Outsider. Your father, later that night, had given in and relayed what he knew: a street urchin had broken into the woman’s home, looking for items to sell on the black market, and had stumbled upon her private shrine to the Outsider. They’d reported her to the Overseers, likely (your father says) in hopes of a reward. More evidence had been found when the Overseers acquired a search warrant, and in response to concerns about the woman’s herb shop being a front for further witchcraft, she had been put to death.

You also learn that there is something wrong with you, deep down where no one can touch it.

You realize this when, later that night, you still don’t feel that same fear and disgust that your parents had shown. You don’t even feel more compelled to focus on the Strictures, despite these new consequences of disobedience. When you think of that witch, of the strange singing runes and glowing lanterns she was said to possess, something dark and fascinating thrills in your small body. The way she looked at you haunts you, as questions without answers always do.

The next day, you sneak into your father’s library and flip through a volume on exploration to Pandyssia, listening intently for the sound of approaching footsteps all the while. Stumbling through the dense text, you learn of steep cliffs hostile to the earliest voyagers, of great leather-winged beasts capable of plucking men off the ground like mice, of black thrumming bones buried deep in the red earth. The wonder of the text is tainted by its moralistic wording, the Abbey clearly breathing down the author’s neck. You manage to derive a sense of wonder from the text despite this fault. You finish the book well before your father returns home and tuck it back into its place, careful to leave nothing else disturbed.

At dinner that night, you play the role of the obedient child, keeping your smile hidden and only speaking when spoken to. This is easy for the most part- your favored older brother, Michael, is the target of your parents’ conversation most of the time. His loud braggart’s voice becomes background noise to your thoughts as you pick away at your dinner. You need access to more books like the one you read this afternoon. It seems essential at this point. Your father’s personal collection may suffice for a few more days, but there must be more beyond that.

When the servants are clearing the plates, you speak up. “May I go to the library next week?”

Your parents cease conversing and turn to you. Your brother’s brows knit in suspicion.

“It’s just that I’ll be starting classes soon, and I want to get ahead on some of the subjects,” you add hastily.

Your father shrugs. “I don’t see why not. We’ll take you to pick up your schoolbooks while we’re out.”

You bow your head and thank him, the rush of a successful deception flowing through you. You’ve begun to take pride in your ability to lie so well at such a young age; there’s something darkly thrilling to it that you try not to analyze too carefully. Your upcoming tutoring sessions are the perfect excuse to sneak away to the library where you’ll be on your own- you understand that you can’t be caught asking a librarian about the topics you’re looking for. A shiver runs through you as you remember the fate of the witch you saw. You wonder if the Overseers would take pity on a little girl. Most likely not.

Later that night, you lie awake in your bed, draped with heavy curtains and far too large for your tiny body. The walls are hung with paintings chosen by your mother, gazing down at you from every angle. You turn on your side and close your eyes, listening to the old manor creak and settle around you. When you finally fall asleep, your dreams are illuminated with hovering purple lanterns and cultish chanting echoing from the darkness beyond. Upon waking, you forget the vision instantly, left only with a vague sense of fear.

~

The next months pass deceptively quick, falling behind you like dead leaves from a tree. You are taken more than once to the library, to your silent delight, where you feign flipping through children’s books until your parents grow bored enough to leave you alone for a half hour or so. From the high shelves of the historical section you pull free books with titles like _A Gristolian History of Witchcraft_ and _Bones of the Isles: Sailor’s Charms from the High Seas_ , poring over them as fast as you can manage and marveling at their engraved-steel illustrations. Eventually the bits of information you’ve gathered grow too extensive to memorize, so you begin to jot them down in a small, unassuming leather journal you keep hidden beneath your mattress for fear of forgetting this hard-earned knowledge.

Your boredom is lifted, at least temporarily, when your formal education begins. Your own mother dresses you that day, rather than the maid, Marianne, who usually sets out your clothes for you.

“Be sure to make a good impression,” is her advice to you as she tugs your blazer into place, adjusting the ribbon in your plaited hair. “Those are all children of aristocrats in your class. Children like you and your brother. You’ll be associating closely with them for years to come, so make some friends.” You nod obediently in response. It seems bizarre to you to put so much emphasis on bonding with your classmates, when it’s the professor who’ll be doing the teaching. What’s the point of going to school, if not to learn?

You clutch your books and knapsack close to your chest on the coach ride there, passing tall concrete apartments and bustling marketplaces. Flipping through your notebook’s blank pages, you try to envision what sorts of lessons might fill them by the end of the year. Will your classmates be like you, eager to learn and impress? Less than twenty minutes later, the driver drops you off in front of the glass-paned brownstone building where the classes are held. Wide-eyed, you make your way in, where a harried-looking woman ushers you to the classroom.

Already, nearly a dozen children are here, talking loudly and threatening to tip over their wooden desks with their activity. Five girls and seven boys, you note, dressed in the everyday finery of nobles, silk and frothy lace-trimmed pants. Adjusting your hair self-consciously, you find a place in the second row and speak to no one, staring out the window at the view of Dunwall until the professor arrives.

The bespectacled man who enters the room wears a plain brown suit, a stark contrast to the outfits of your peers. The other children squirm restlessly in their seats and whisper to each other as he takes his place at the front of the room.

“My name is Professor Fitz,” he says, scrawling it on the chalkboard before turning back to you. “I graduated from the Academy of Natural Philosophy with a focus in history and architecture. I worked in academia for twenty-five years before switching to teaching, and I will be your tutor for the next six years, should you remain in my class.”

He runs a careful eye over the group of you. “Right,” he says at last. “Names, if you will. It’s always tricky learning them all.”

Direct and to-the-point. You think you might like him.

The first day passes quickly, in a blur of new acquaintances and information. Professor Fitz seems to take his job seriously; in a few hours, you’ve been introduced to History, Mathematics, Reading, Spelling, and Science. You’ve written their headings in your notebooks, scribbling frantic, untidy notes as the boy next to you doodles on his pages. At three o’clock, Professor Fitz dismisses you. As the other students run from the room, whooping and chattering, you belatedly remember what your mother had told you about making a good impression on them. Oh well.

As you pick up your notebooks and prepare to leave, you’re stopped by a voice from behind you.

“You there,” says Professor Fitz. “What’s your name?”

You spin around to answer him. Fitz, realizing his considerable height over you, takes a kneeling position in front of you.

“Breanna. I’m Breanna Ashworth.”

“Breanna,” Fitz says. “Could you write your name on the chalkboard for me?”

You place your books back on the desk and walk up to the board, wondering what could be the meaning of such a simple request. The letters form under your fingers- B, R, E, A, all the way to the last H. You frown at your handwriting, still so far from the elegant cursive you’ve seen your mother use. Perhaps that will come with more practice.

Fitz has come to stand next to you, watching you write.

“Now, could you write the name of the river that runs through Dunwall?”

This one’s a bit harder. The word sounds like it should begin with an ‘R’, but in print, it actually starts with a ‘W’. A ‘W’ before an ‘R’ means the ‘W’ is silent, like in ‘wrath’ and ‘wrong’. You scrawl out ‘Wrenhaven’, then ‘River’. It looks just like you remember it from the signs.

Fitz seems to be staring intently at what you’ve written on the board, brow furrowed. He then turns sharply on his heel and heads over to the wooden podium in front of the room, returning with a book in hand. You watch curiously as he opens it to a certain page and places it in front of you.

“Read this,” he says, tapping the beginning of a line of print with one fingertip. “Out loud, please.”

You study the page, searching for unfamiliar words, before beginning.

“In 1631, Emperor Finlay Morden- Morgengaard,” you stumble before continuing, “com-missioned the first fleet of vessels made…express-ly for the hunting and pro-cessing of…whales.” Another tricky ‘W’ word. You glance up at Fitz. “Sorry, I don’t think I got all those right.”

He shakes his head emphatically. “No, that was perfectly fine. Keep going.” It’s difficult to read his expression, if only because you’re fairly sure that no one has ever looked at you like this before, as if you were doing something incredible.

You shrug and continue slowly. “They were powered by sails alone, and so were at the mercy of the winds…”

At the end of the section of text, Fitz stops you.

“How long have you been reading?” he asks, peering quizzically at you.

“Since I was three. I can write stuff too, but I don’t always get the spellings right.” You don’t really understand what all the fuss is about. Your family knows you can read, but they’ve never made a big deal out of it.

Fitz’s eyes flicker between your face and the words written on the board.

“Breanna, this is…very special for a child of your age. Most of the students in this class can’t write their own names yet, let alone read aloud from a history text. I saw you writing in class and thought that you couldn’t have possibly been taking real notes, but…”

You’re too stunned to respond, but Fitz fills in the silence. “I want you to keep reading and practicing your writing. The next few months may get boring, but the other students need to learn what you’ve learned.”

“Where can I get more books?”

“I’ll bring you some from my own collection. When you’ve finished one, give it back to me, and I’ll give you another. Read as much as you want.”

 _Read as much as you want_. You feel as though the grandest feast in the world has just been placed in front of you.

You dip your head and stammer out a few words of thanks, promising to be careful with the books. Fitz offers you the hint of a smile before straightening back up and ushering you out the door. Your heart thumps fast in your chest as you descend the stairs, passing window after window until you reach the ground floor, where your family’s coach waits outside.

Special, he’d said. Something about you is noteworthy, different. To be paid this sort of attention, after years of watching your parents dote on your older brother, of being the inferior female child…

Well, it’s nothing short of perfect.

~

The rest of your childhood goes a bit like this:

Blissful hours spent between pages, escaping so deeply into fantastic worlds that it’s disappointing to have to return. More classes, a chance to learn and prove yourself, to finally become adept at something. Instead of playing tag in the courtyard at recess, you sit inside with Fitz, discussing the books he lends you. He doesn’t scold you for asking questions; in fact, he seems to never tire of answering them. Short, strange conversations with the other children, to whom you simply can’t relate. Your parents’ disappointment. The maid, smuggling you treats. She favors you over your brother.

Dreams of purple light and scurrying rats. The river, full of silt and mysteries. There is so much to discover in this city, if only you were allowed to see it.

Boredom at home and cruelty in your classes. You finally learn what sorts of people your parents want you to befriend. From this, you also determine what sort of woman they want you to become. The boys, with their loud stupid voices, tugging at your plaited hair and kicking at your shins when you walk single-file down the hallway. The girls, even worse, snickering at you and tripping you on your way up to the chalkboard. Humiliation is even worse than physical pain. You simmer, accumulating bruises and tallying injustices.

Marianne brings her daughter by on weekends. Her name is Phyllis, sweet and freckle-faced and dressed in coarse cloth. Her hands are rough but strong, and she loves stories just as much as you do, if not more. You escape your respective worlds together, on warm days in the attic with dust filtering in through the beams of sunlight. Brief flashes of color in a grey house.

The city changes in ways that even you can mark from your lofty prison in the manor. New marvels of technology powered by whale oil seem to appear overnight. Professor Fitz finds papers and diagrams for you to study, each seemingly more complex than the last. He tells you, one day, that you could become a great inventor, should you put your mind to it. You could be among the brilliant minds pushing this city forward. A physician, or a mechanist, or a zoologist. A world of endless possibilities, just out of reach.

Your brother is set to join your father’s law firm and, eventually, to own it. Your parents coo and fuss over him, dressing him in fine clothes, a costume to fit the role he plays, unsuited as he is for it. He’s impulsive. Amoral. Reckless. But these qualities are forgiven in men. In the absence of supervision by your parents, you slip away unseen, just under their noses. One evening you make it all the way to Kaldwin’s Bridge before your fear forces you back to safety.

Every time you pass that square, you think of her. The witch, whose execution is still the most vivid memory you have of your early childhood. You still wonder what she saw in you.

And so you come to be twelve.

It’s midway through the Month of Wind, and your last classes with Professor Fitz have already ended, as of a few weeks ago. You’d already said your somewhat tearful goodbyes to him; he’d been a constant encouraging presence in your life, and you find yourself wishing for nothing more than to remain his student. You’d assumed that last day in class would be the final time you’d hear from him, which is why it’s so surprising to now hear his voice coming from somewhere downstairs in the manor.

You crouch in the shadows on the stairs, shamelessly eavesdropping on what seems to be a conversation between Fitz and your parents. It’s late- why is he here? Did you forget to return one of his books? You’d been so careful with the seemingly endless number of them that he’d lent you over the years. But your parents don’t seem happy to see him, judging by what you can hear.

“-already told you, we’ve discussed this and have made our decision,” comes your mother’s irritated voice.

“Yes, I understand, and of course I wouldn’t impose on the authority you have as her parents-” there’s Fitz, that calm, clever voice you’ve grown so used to, “-but you understand, as a professor, that I must recognize potential where I see it.”

“You’ve emphasized Breanna’s supposed ‘potential’ to us already,” says your father. Your heart leaps into your throat at the mention of your name.

“Only because she is like no student I have had in years, perhaps decades. She’s been far ahead of her peers since the start, which is why I firmly believe that she would be a shoo-in for the Academy when she’s older.”

The Academy of Natural Philosophy. The place you’ve dreamed of since Fitz first told you about it. The stories you’ve heard- they’re like fairy tales to you. Anton Sokolov is the Head there, one of Dunwall’s hailed geniuses. You’ve read all about him in the news, fantasizing of one day meeting him in the halls of that hallowed place.

“If she’s so smart, why not let her apply now?” Your mother’s sarcastic tone carries up to you.

“I- you must know, Lady Ashworth, the Academy does not allow students under eighteen to apply. Which is why I think Breanna deserves to continue her studies until that time, so as to properly prepare her for the rigorous admittance tests-“

Your father cuts in. “The only preparation Breanna needs is the kind she will receive in Mrs. Peabody’s classes. Her behavior is unsuitable enough as it is, what with all the hours she wastes reading and daydreaming with servant girls. The last thing she needs is more encouragement towards…masculine pursuits.”

You scarcely hear the rest of the conversation through the roaring white noise in your ears, the blood-rush of fury.

“She’d hardly be the first woman to graduate from there- I had female classmates myself, who went on to become leaders in their fields. There’s certainly nothing wrong with keeping an open mind.”

“Maybe that kind of conduct is acceptable from…other families,” says your father, sneering, “but the Ashworths have always held their kin to a higher standard. I’ve heard the stories that come out of that place, and I’m afraid the Academy is simply out of the question for either of our children.”

“I only want to see her succeed,” says Fitz, pleading now. “It would be a waste for her to be-“

“We are her parents. We will decide what is and isn’t a ‘waste’ of our daughter. A girl of her status must be made ready to enter society, regardless of what flights of fancy she or her _tutor_ may have.”

Your hands are trembling uncontrollably. You clutch the banister until your knuckles turn white.

“Now, Professor, I’ll request that you show yourself out. You’ve enjoyed a beneficial relationship with the upper class of this city for years. I would hate to see you endanger your career by pushing the subject further.”

There is a very long silence after that.

“Goodnight, Lord Ashworth. Lady Ashworth.” Footsteps sound out, followed by the creak of the front door opening and shutting. Outside, the rain pounds mercilessly down in sheets.

You sit for a few minutes in a state of shock before silently climbing the stairs, returning to your room. Downstairs, your parents continue their conversation, thoughtless of what they’ve destroyed. Your whole body buzzes with something powerful- the way you’d felt when your classmates had mocked you, but multiplied a thousand times. You could power a Wall of Light with this feeling. You could destroy a building, shaking it to its foundation.

You could build a better world, a real one, tangible in the way that your stories with Phyllis are not, if only you had true power. If only there were a source somewhere that you could tap into, to become stronger than your parents, your classmates, every fool in this city who dared to try and make you into something you’re not. You want to scream windstorms into existence, rip earthquakes out of the ground, turn rivers to poison.

Instead, you cry yourself to sleep to the sound of thunder outside.

~

Sixteen, now, and while your brother learns the ways of the Ashworth law firm, you are confined to hours of Mrs. Peabody’s brand of mental torture. How much of the day can one possibly devote to learning table etiquette? How many times must one change one’s outfit per day to suit the occasion? Is there no end to the secret meanings of various floral arrangements? It is intolerable to you. You’re certain you were made for more than this.

What makes these classes worse, you muse, eyelids drooping in the clinging heat of this Friday afternoon, is that you’d been given a taste of what could have been. What was the purpose of going to Fitz’s classes, of reading all those books, if the only fate that awaited you was that of a dutiful housewife? It’s almost enough to make you wish you’d never learned of the world beyond this one. The only excitement that awaits you now seems to be in party planning, if this class is any indication.

“Now, Charlotte, could you tell us which side of the plate the oyster fork should be placed on in a formal setting?” Mrs. Peabody asks. This entire session seems like an extended farce at times. It’s all you can do to keep a straight face.

“The right side, ma’am,” Charlotte Mayweather pipes up. “To the outside of the dinner knife, fish knife, and the soup spoon.”

If one was to feel the overwhelming, despairing need to slit one’s own throat at the dinner table, would one use the dinner knife, the fish knife, or the salad knife? Answer that, Mrs. Peabody. You vapid bitch.

“Sit up and pay attention, Breanna,” Mrs. Peabody snaps. “You think I haven’t noticed you dozing off?”

The other girls snicker as you jerk to attention, face burning. As Mrs. Peabody drones on and on about appropriate placement of guests at the table, you find yourself drawn to the sight of the city’s skyline out the window. This classroom is on the west side of the river, and you can see Kaldwin’s Bridge cutting through the horizon in the distance. Further to the north is the distillery district, and beyond that, Slaughterhouse Row, where the gritty filth of the city festers. Where the whales are hoisted up by hooks and chains and drained of their oil, gore dripping into the sewers below them. Suspended in the air, far from their own element. Trapped, sweltering in the heat, while they are stripped of what makes them useful. Disposed of when they are no longer valuable.

Your parents no longer send you to class in a coach. You are old enough to make your own way through the city, they tell you, at least on the safe route they’ve ordered you to take. As far as they know, you meet with the other girls in your class before leaving the Estate District or the classroom, so that you are never alone in the city.

In reality, of course, this is not the case.

The rest of the girls- Charlotte, giggly and thoughtless, Waverly and Esma, tied in blood and cruelty, stoic Mathilde, and all the rest- walk to class and back in a close-knit group, as if literally bonded at the waist. They gossip and glance around nervously, seemingly expecting beggars to leap at them from the shadows the moment they step outside the borders of the Estate District. You’ve tried walking with them before and found that traveling alone is preferable.

And so, on your way home, you are free to take your own path through the city, unburdened by company. You walk the dim edges of the bottling district, taking the bridge across the Wrenhaven to the Old Waterfront in the shadow of the looming Clocktower. All along the river, the red-brick buildings stink of gutted fish. Only a few workers are outside at this hour, conversing or smoking. You avoid their notice by ducking between dilapidated buildings, crossing aqueducts and canals. Old papers, advertising wares or warning of wanted criminals, still cling to walls and notice boards. They would have been cleaned up in the Estate District, scrubbed away until not a scrap remained.

More permanent decorations can be found here, too, further from the fishery yards. Of course there is the regular sort of graffiti, insults to indebted individuals, claims to territory by certain gangs. But there are other things painted here, strange purple symbols that intrigue and fascinate you. A crossed set of scythes, painted on a corrugated steel wall. A skull with foreign script beneath it, scrawled beside a doorway. The buildings here are uninhabited, at least to your eyes. You’ve yet to work up the courage to venture inside.

Your parents will be angry with you if you take too long to get home. They’ll question you or threaten the freedom they’ve allotted you. You can never linger long in this area of town, where the air is thick with salt and brine, centuries of rot and industry. Where no one knows your name, and no one will scold you for being out too late.

Today you find a symbol you haven’t seen before, painted on the curved concrete walls of one aqueduct. A rat, its four limbs stretched out as if pinned to a board, with more unfamiliar text under and across the image. Crouching by the aqueduct, you take out a notebook, the same leather one you’d written your childish notes in all those years ago, and sketch out the rat symbol on a blank page. Every symbol you’ve found, every line of occult text, is recorded in this notebook.

You’re not sure why you keep it up, honestly. It’s grown beyond a nostalgic fascination; that much is certain. Perhaps you hope to determine some meaning from the images. A connection to something greater than dinner parties and arranged marriages. Or maybe you’re just after danger, chasing the impulse for self-destruction, for the forbidden. There’s nothing much gained from self-reflection, you’ve found. All that matters is that your time alone in the streets of Dunwall is time not spent wanting to throw yourself out the window of the manor. That alone makes it worth the risk.


	2. Chapter 2

 

“We call an end to the pretence of respectability.”         

                             - _The Manifesto of_ _Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

Your head aches, every strand of hair pulled back into an elaborate, ridiculous hairstyle painstakingly pinned into place with perhaps thirty tiny pins. You shift your weight from foot to foot, trying to relieve the strain of balancing on five-inch heels as you watch the gala taking place before you. This is how, at eighteen, your formal education comes to an end: in an extravagant, aristocratic party.

It's a graduation of sorts. Your class has been planning this party together for months, every detail scrutinized and hotly debated. Assembling the menu had taken weeks; your thoughts fly to the women like Phyllis working ceaselessly in the kitchens far below this dance floor, carrying out the orders of girls half their age. Carefully selected decorations mark the room here and there- silk-printed name cards at the tables, heavy curtains bracketing the tall windows, an ornate wreath hanging above the door. The other girls had agonized over the color scheme for days before settling on a silvery grey, accented with maroon and white. Grey party, grey city, grey world.

And of course, all of your least favorite people are here, rounding out the guest list. There’s the Crawford boy, William Bunting over by the window, and Louis Pratchett making a fool of himself on the dance floor with Mathilde Swanson. Thankfully, your classmates had agreed to invite some female guests as well, to at least lessen the appearance of this being a matchmaking event. Adelle White is eyeing the appetizer trays, and you can make out Ella Triss’s silhouette haunting the drinks bar. She’s clearly got the right idea, and you’re on your teetering way to join her when a hand fastens onto your gloved arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?” a familiar voice hisses. Mother. It would’ve been a miracle if you’d managed to avoid her the whole night. This is a graduation, after all. Most everyone’s families are here, assessing the work of their daughters.

“I’m getting a drink,” you tell her flatly, attempting to disengage from her vice-lock on your arm.

“No, you aren’t,” says Mother, speaking very close to your ear. Her other hand is on your shoulder, giving the appearance of a proud parent having a quiet conversation with her daughter. “You’re going to turn around and strike up a charming conversation with James Crawford over there, and you will avoid both alcohol and Ella Triss for the rest of the night.”

“What’s wrong with Ella Triss?” Ella is alright as far as aristocracy goes- a bit airheaded, but kind. A year ago you’d drunkenly kissed her in a bathroom at the Gordons’ year-end party, with very pleasing results. She looks lonely over by the bar, and really, the roasted pig at the end of the dining table would make for a better conversational partner than James Crawford.

Your mother smiles poisonously. “You know as well as I do that the Triss family is struggling to stay afloat. She was only invited out of politeness, so do something useful for once in your life and talk to Crawford.” She gives you a little push in Crawford’s direction, nearly toppling you in your torture-implement heels. You will yourself not to glare back at her as you head in Crawford’s direction.

“Evening, James.”

A strange expression crosses his face briefly. “Breanna. Congratulations on your graduation. Your class has thrown a marvelous party, I must say.” He appears to have been indulging in the mulled wine from the bar, if his breath is any indication.

You try your best to put on an appreciative smile. “Thank you. We’re so glad you were able to attend.” Your mother’s gaze bores into your back, so you press further. “Care to join me on the dance floor?”

It’s against tradition for you to ask him like this, but no one else has stepped up to the task of asking you to dance. Desperate times, desperate measures and all that. A smug look appears on Crawford’s ruddy face, but he takes your hand and walks you to the center of the room. You, at least, have been trained in a number of ballroom dances. To your surprise, however, Crawford isn’t terrible himself.

“So what’s next for you? I imagine you must have finished your preparatory classes as well.” The secret to interacting with most men, you’ve found, is to get them talking about themselves.

“Yes, I completed those last month,” he says, twirling you briefly before settling back into the steps of the dance. “Father says I’ll be ready to join the guard within the year. I might travel first, you know. See the Isles and all.”

“What a marvelous idea.” You do your utmost to imbue your tone with some degree of interest.

“After that, I’ll be ready to work my way up through the ranks of the City Watch. I should be able to secure myself a good post somewhere decent in town. I hear the less lucky conscripts get assigned to the Flooded District, can you believe that?”

You give a polite little laugh and instantly feel disgusted with yourself on a deep level. “How unpleasant. I can’t imagine there’s much law and order left there.” It hasn’t been long since the barrier broke; you can easily recall the days of the Rudshore Financial District, before it disappeared under twelve feet of water.

“But what of yourself, Miss Ashworth?” Crawford asks, guiding you away from the center of the room. There’s a glint in his eye that you don’t like the look of. “Will you be applying to the Academy of Natural Philosophy now?”

His words hit you like a club to the ribs, but you’ve only a moment to gape before he throws his head back and laughs.

“Forgive me,” he says, fixing his gaze upon you again. “I couldn’t help myself. You aren’t too offended, are you?”

“Not at all,” you stammer out. “I can take a joke.”

“It merely surprised me to hear that you had once aspired to enroll in the Academy. How long did it take you to become disabused of that notion?” The two of you have since ceased dancing, and he releases your hands.

In your speechless shock, he continues. “Esma and Waverly told me all about you. Always carrying that weird little notebook around, sketching out diagrams and such.” He leans in far too close, his voice now turned to ice. “What were you hoping? To become what- an inventor, like Sokolov? I suppose you had to make some alternate plans, in light of your lack of marriage prospects.”

Your voice returns to you. Clearly you’d miscalculated this man’s dislike of you- you’d thought him a neutral if very stupid party, but clearly the Boyles’ influence extends further than you’d believed. Curse them.

“Get away from me,” you spit, doing your best to distance yourself. “As if I’d want to be courted by a brainless fool like you. I wouldn’t wed you if my life depended on it.”

His malicious grin only widens. “So I hear. It’s almost as if you won’t let _any_ men court you. You’re far too cold to make any man a wife, Miss Ashworth,” he says with a mocking laugh. “Perhaps your interests lie elsewhere?”

Oh, that’s it. You snatch a glass of some indeterminate alcohol off a passing waiter’s tray and throw it in Crawford’s face on pure impulse.

For about five seconds, it’s completely and utterly gratifying. What an idiot he looks, standing dumbstruck and open-mouthed while dark crimson liquid drips from him, staining his suit jacket and pooling on the floor. Everyone’s looking at the two of you, and for once in your life you actually feel powerful.

Then you see your mother’s face.

“Enjoy my party,” you hiss at Crawford, before turning on your heel and fleeing the scene.

~

You’re nearly mad with fear when you finally return home, knowing what awaits you there. It’s past midnight and you can only pace the streets for so long before you’re compelled to return home, though jumping off Kaldwin’s Bridge is seeming like more of a preferable option each minute. The icy water can’t be worse than the frigid terror shooting through your veins.

Your mother fastens her hands around your throat for a chilling moment after you enter the manor, pinning you against the back of the door before your father pulls her back. Her face is a mask of fury.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” she shrieks, evening pearls still dangling from her neck. Your father drags her back before refocusing his attention on you.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he growls. “You’ll be the talk of the town tomorrow, the Ashworth freak who ruined the spring gala!”

“I can’t be the first person in history to have thrown a glass of wine,” you manage, mouth a few seconds ahead of your brain.

“Crawford, Breanna! James Crawford! His father is on the Emperor’s personal guard!” Mother looks ready to scratch your eyes out. Your heart pounds fast, the room around you a swirling nightmare.

“He insulted my honor.” Think, think, think. You can’t allow this to escalate further.

“Your _honor_? Since when do _you_ have any honor to insult?” says Father. Mother steps back, wringing her hands and muttering.

“How are we going to explain this to the Crawfords? We’ll be pariahs if they hold this against us…”

There’s one thing you can tell them that might lessen their rage. You just have to pretend to be offended by what Crawford said, rather than shaken that he was so correct.

“He accused me of being an invert.” You raise your voice, and your parents go silent. “He insulted my marriage prospects and told me I would make no man a wife.” You manage to blink out a few quivering tears- it’s not really hard, considering how close you were already to weeping.

“Nonsense,” says your mother after a few moments, but there’s doubt in her tone. “He wouldn’t insult you so plainly. The Ashworth name still commands some respect.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” Trembling lower lip, hands clenched in fists by your sides. “I did as you asked and went to talk to him. Would you rather I had accepted the insult?”

“And he called you- what did he say?” your father demands.

“He asked me if my romantic interests lay outside men.” His mouth drops open.

“Well, it’s not as though you’ve accepted anyone’s courtship,” your mother mutters. “It’s not inconceivable that he’d think that-“

“Brigid!” your father shouts, and she falls silent. The room is still for a long minute.

“What Breanna did was wrong,” says your father, “but Crawford can’t be allowed to insult an Ashworth like this. We’ll meet with the Crawfords and explain the situation. James will apologize and we’ll all move on. They can’t hold this against us.”

As your mother and father discuss what to say to the Crawfords at their home, which apparently involves blaming your hormonal teenage impulses, you take a few quiet steps backward, intending to flee the room.

Of course, you could never be so fortunate.

Your mother’s arm flashes out and seizes your shoulder. “Going somewhere, Breanna?”

“I- I just thought, since you don’t want me there for the apology-“

“That you would go unpunished? I don’t think so,” she hisses. “Philip, get the coach ready. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Your father’s gaze flickers between the two of you for a moment before he nods in acquiescence and leaves the room.

“Let me explain something to you,” says your mother, as she tightens her grip on you and begins walking you toward the stairs to the floor below. “What you’ve done tonight, on the night where you could’ve rescued your reputation, has now permanently damaged our name. The Crawfords won’t forget this quickly. Neither will any other guest at that party.”

Down the stairs, her long nails piercing clawlike into your flesh. You’re struggling to keep upright in your heels, whimpering in pain.

“I thought we’d raised a daughter who knew the value of silence,” your mother is saying as she drags you down the dark hall. When you try to escape her grip, she grabs you by the hair instead, and you let out a pained cry. “But instead it seems we’ve raised a rebellious brat.”

Her face is suddenly very close to yours, practically unrecognizable in her rage.

“My family learned the consequences of scandal the hard way. I will _not_ let you bring that down on me again.”

She drags you a few steps further and flings open the door to the wine cellar.

“I hope you learn your lesson after tonight.”

With that, she pushes you into the room and shuts the door behind you. You jump to your feet only to hear a lock click into place.

“Mother!” you shout after her.

The sound of heels echoing back down the hallway.

“ _Mother!_ ”

No response. It’s so dark in here; the room is lit by a single, flickering lantern. You’re shivering in the damp cold.

You stumble to a nearby shelf and slump against it, trying uselessly to suppress the oncoming tears. They leave warm tracks down your face, smearing your carefully applied makeup. Distantly, you hear yourself heaving huge sobs, muffled by the buzzing static in your mind. It’s an ugly, ugly sound.

Will you fall asleep? Will you wake up, finding that all of this was simply a bad dream? Will you freeze to death in this cellar, as your body slows and stutters before finally giving in to that long, tempting sleep?

Nothing so satisfying. Long after you’ve exhausted yourself with weeping, your frantic shivering swiftly wakes you each time you manage to drift off for a moment. This, in turn, frustrates you to more weeping. How pathetic. You’ve no idea how much time has passed. Is it light outside yet?

~

“Breanna!”

You jerk back into consciousness. Who’s calling you?

“Breanna, are you there?”

“Phyllis?” You scramble over to the door. “Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. I came as soon as I found out where you were. Are you alright?”

“I- what time is it?” You scrub furiously at your eyes. “Can you let me out?”

“It’s early morning. Mom and I just arrived for our morning shift here. And I wish I could let you out, but your mother has the key.”

You sigh, leaning against the door. “I figured as much. Still, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m so sorry, Breanna. I heard about everything that happened last night.”

You snort with bitter amusement. “I only wish you could’ve been there to see me throw that wine on Crawford. You would’ve lost your mind laughing.” Phyllis has a wonderful sense of humor. She laughs even at your silliest jokes. You used to send her into giggling fits when you were younger just by pulling a funny face.

You hear her chuckle now. “I’m sure I would’ve. I hear Crawford’s a real asshole. Not that I’d ever say it to anyone but you.”

“Oh, he is. This whole city should be thanking me on bended knee for taking him down a notch. Instead I’m stuck here.”

In the inch-wide space below the door, the tips of Phyllis’s fingers appear. “I’m sure you’ll be out soon. Everyone’s just overreacting is all.”

You sit against the door and press your fingers against hers, reveling in this small, precious human contact. “I hope so.”

A comfortable silence falls. It’s as if the door isn’t even there at all when you shut your eyes.

“And if they don’t let me out soon, I’ll hold their wine hostage until they do.”

Phyllis bursts into laughter. You’ve never been more grateful for her company.

“I mean it. I’ll start drinking their most expensive bottles in here, I’m sure I can find them.”

“You’d poison yourself with all the alcohol!”

“I’ll die on the floor here with my middle fingers extended.” That sends her into another round of giggles.

“Phyllis?” Both of you fall silent.

“That’s my mother,” she whispers to you. “She’ll want me back upstairs.”

“Phyllis, come on up here,” Marianne calls.

“I have to go.” Her fingers press hard against yours.

“I know,” you tell her. “Thanks for being here. Be careful up there with my mother, she’s gone mad.”

“I will. Stay strong, Breanna.” Her warm fingers disappear back under the door, and her footsteps fade down the hallway.

Once again, you’re alone, the light Phyllis brings everywhere with her now gone away. Your stomach growls, and you lean back against the door with a sigh, fingers tapping against the cold stone. The wine is starting to look better and better.

About half an hour later, you hear the telltale sound of heels tapping down the hallway. Mother.

You rise unsteadily to your feet as the door is unlocked and opened. Your mother stands in the doorframe, hair and makeup freshly renewed and wearing a different outfit.

“You’re free,” she says, with a sickly sweet smile. “Come along now.”

In wretched silence, you follow her up the stairs to a silent house. She leaves you, and you’re halfway up the stairs to your room before you realize what’s missing.

“Where’s Phyllis and Marianne?”

Your mother turns to face you, and her expression makes your blood run cold.

“They’ve been let go.”

Oh no. No no no no no.

“What?” Your voice comes out as a squeak.

“You heard me. The new maid, Martha, will be arriving tomorrow. There wasn’t really any need to have two of them doing the same job. And Phyllis was always so distracted with you, wasn’t she? People like James Crawford might have gotten the wrong idea.” Her voice drips with horrid satisfaction.

No, this is too much. Too much for you to bear. You’re struggling to stay standing as you receive this news.

“You fired them…just to spite me?”

Mother’s gaze grows sharp, the smug expression sliding off her face.

“I fired them to teach you the _consequences_ of your actions. You clearly thought nothing of defying me and embarrassing this family. Perhaps next time, you’ll remember that there is still _so much_ that can be taken away from you. If that’s what it takes to keep you in check, I’m perfectly willing to do it.”

Slowly, you turn from her and struggle up the stairs, their faces flashing before you. Phyllis and Marianne, innocent as can be, punished with your thoughtlessness. The world spins before you. You make it to the bathroom before doubling over to retch over the toilet, bringing up nothing from your empty stomach. There’s nothing left of your tears. They’ve all been used up.

~

It’s late in the Month of Hearths now, and Draper’s Ward is bustling with activity. Bright shocks of color mark the streets: brocade, silk, velvet, in every shade and tone imaginable. Dock workers pass you by, carting massive rolls of fabric, crates of buttons, and strips of whale-rib boning. Boats of all sizes chug up and down the river on their delivery routes.

“Oh, isn’t this a fine satin!” Ella Triss coos, rubbing the fabric in question between her forefinger and thumb. “I know I said I liked the mint green from before, but I might have to bring my tailor a sample of this one, too.”

“Yes, this one’s a lovely color as well,” you tell her, glancing at her choice. She hums happily.

The best part about shopping with Ella is that she mostly manages to entertain herself. Ever since your parents forbade you to travel the city alone, she’s become your errand companion, accompanying you to bakeries and bookstores. As soon as Ella’s done shopping for her newest bespoke outfit, she’s promised to take you by the nearest bookstore so you can pick up something to alleviate your boredom.

“Ooh, I think I see the Boyle sisters over there,” says Ella. You follow her gaze and take in the curly blonde heads of what do appear to be the Boyles. You’re afraid that Ella might try to say hello, but the sisters disappear into a crowded storefront and are gone.

“I wonder if I’ll ever be invited to one of their parties,” Ella sighs dreamily. “It’s unlikely, but one can always hope!”

“It’s possible,” you tell her, inspecting an interesting geometric pattern on a bolt of silk. “You didn’t ruin their graduation party, after all.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean-“ Ella stammers apologetically. “That is, you could always be invited as well!”

You shrug. “It’s alright. I really don’t mind it. Besides, I’d rather not get involved in all the matchmaking that goes on at those parties.”

“You don’t look forward to finding a nice husband?”

“Ella, I’m all but unmarriageable now.”

“Don’t say that!”

You can’t help but chuckle. “You’re more concerned about my future than I am.” It’s sweet, in a way.

Ella sniffs. “I just don’t want you saying those kinds of things. Sure, you’re a little older now-“ you’re twenty-three, “-but there could still very well be someone out there for you!”

You give her a quick smile. “I appreciate your positive outlook, El.” She smiles back.

“Now do you think we could finish up in this store?”

She starts, then checks her timepiece. “Oh yes, let’s move on. I didn’t realize how long I’d spent in here. I swear, time passes all too quickly when I’m shopping!”

At last, you leave Draper’s Ward with Ella, her bag full to bursting with fabric samples. She rambles on about her ideas for the outfit, about the man she hopes to talk to and impress at the party. She tries so hard to fit in, you reflect. It’s almost a blessing, being so cut off from the rest of the aristocracy. You’d surely lose your mind doing what she does.

“Here we are,” Ella chirps as the two of you arrive at Jovan’s Attic, a variety bookstore near the border of Drapers Ward. It’s not neat and organized like The Paper Palace, or well-lit and fashionable like The Idle Poet, but the owner stocks a broad selection of books from across the Isles. You can always count on finding something here that you’ve never seen before.

Jovan waves at you from his perch on a ladder when you enter with Ella. Elderly and quiet, he’s one of the few people in this city who doesn’t seem to give a damn about your family or your status. You’re just another regular customer to him. It’s nice.

“Afternoon, Jovan,” you greet him. “Any recommendations for me?”

He points a wrinkled finger in the direction of the staircase leading to the dim lower level. “We got a shipment of political volumes in last week. Everything from pamphlets to manifestoes. I’d recommend taking a look at those, if you’ve got an open mind.”

You thank him and head for the stairs. Ella settles down in a chair by the entrance and picks up a newspaper to read.

A handmade sign indicates the new arrivals, stacked on a wooden table and surrounded by shelves. You pick up one pamphlet and flip through it- it appears to be about the Morleyan independence movement. Jovan should hope that the city watch never raids down here; some of these things could potentially be dangerous to even keep on hand. Putting down the string-bound leaflet, you next pick up a thicker volume entitled _The Blight of the Cobblestone_.

You’re in the middle of paging through it when a voice interrupts your thoughts.

“It’s an interesting read, if a bit sensational.”

You whirl around to see a portly man in his sixties standing between two shelves marked _Biography/Autobiography_ and _Historical Nonfiction_.

“Sorry,” he says, laughing and holding up a hand, “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

You smile politely and shake your head. “It’s nothing, I just didn’t see you there. You’ve read this book?”

“Yes,” he says, “I found the viewpoint to be refreshing, if a little overtly biased. The main argument is that industrialization is moving too quickly and endangering the way of life of the Empire’s citizens.”

You’d learned that much from reading the back cover, but you nod and act engaged as he continues.

“It’s a shame that the author doesn’t seem to have many ideas as to how to change the system. There’s a whole chapter about the health risks to workers, but how is a business supposed to eliminate those entirely?”

“It would be a challenge,” you respond.

“Luckily, my line of work isn’t threatened by either side of the discussion. Bankers will always be needed,” he says with a chuckle. “Forgive me, I don’t believe I got your name.”

You hold out your hand. “Breanna Ashworth.”

He gives it a light shake, as if afraid to squeeze too tightly. “Emil Thurston. Head manager at Conway Bank.” If he recognizes the scandal attached to your name, he gives no sign of it. “Are you a regular here?”

“Yes, Jovan’s is one of my favorite places. I’m here nearly every week.”

He gives you a smile that he must imagine is charming. “A bibliophile, are we?”

“I suppose,” you respond. “Really, I just bore easily. Books are the best way I have of entertaining myself.”

He chuckles. “Well, it’s good to see a lovely young woman like yourself still interested in reading. Nowadays it seems that all the youth are too absorbed in parties and trends to engage in more traditional interests.”

You hum in vague agreement.

“But I shouldn’t distract you further from your errands,” he says, waving a hand at you. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Breanna. I hope to see you again sometime.” He bows his head to you and turns to enter the next room over, which a sign designates as housing _Poetry and_ _Romance_.

Ella all but leaps out of her chair when you return upstairs, while Jovan climbs down from his ladder to ring you up.

“Come again soon!” he calls after you as you leave with Ella, shop bell sounding out behind you as the door closes.

“You were taking your time down there,” she says. “Found anything good?”

“Just this.” You show her the title. “There was this guy who kept trying to talk to me about it. Some old banker.”

Ella’s eyes go big. “A banker? Did he give you his name?”

You restrain yourself from rolling your eyes. “Something Thurston.”

“ _Emil Thurston?_ ” Ella steps in front of you, blocking your way down the street, and grasps at your hands. “Breanna, don’t you have any idea who that is?”

“Clearly I don’t.”

She heaves an exasperated sigh. “He’s only one of the richest men in this city! Nearly every noble in Dunwall keeps their money with him. He doesn’t attend parties very often, so most people only meet with him at his bank. And-“ she leans in close, as if telling a secret, “-he’s unmarried!”

“Ugh.” You draw your hands back from hers. “Ella, he’s got to be three times my age. I’m sure marriage to a girl like me is the last thing on his mind.”

“You don’t know that! And regardless, you should tell your parents when you get home. Maybe they’ll be happy with you for talking to him!”

You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder and continue walking down the street. “I’ll inform them. But I doubt I’ll ever see the man again.”

~

Predictably, your parents react to the name of Emil Thurston in much the same way that Ella had.

“And he took interest in you?” your mother is asking for perhaps the fifteenth time.

“I told you, I don’t know. I’m sure he was just making polite conversation about the book.” You rub at your temples, sinking further into the chaise. If only it would swallow you up, so you wouldn’t have to hear their prattling on.

“But he called you a ‘lovely young woman’. Certainly that’s got to mean something.” She’s looking at you from different angles, as if trying to pinpoint what would compel Thurston to compliment you so.

“I think you’re overanalyzing a bit.”

Your father has been staring into the fireplace, stroking his chin thoughtfully, but now he speaks.

“I’ve been meaning to do business with Thurston for a while now. This might be our chance.” He turns to you. “Breanna, we’ll open an account for you at his bank. Thurston will have to meet with us personally, our name affords us that much.”

“Wait, hold on.” You hold up a hand. “Since when do I get my own bank account?” The threat of being cut off from your parents’ funds has been dangled over your head for years now, and you can scarcely believe that your parents are even considering letting you have access to your own money.

“Since now,” says your father. “Don’t mistake me- if this doesn’t go anywhere with him, that account will be closed.”

“I don’t understand what you want me to do. All we did was have a conversation about a book!”

“Breanna,” your mother says, seizing your shoulders in her sharp grip, “the man is unmarried. He expressed an interest in meeting you again. And he’s _rich_. Even more so than us. Your marriage prospects have just increased from zero to one.”

“My _marriage_ prospects? That’s insane!”

You look to your father to back you up, to tell your mother how delusional she’s being. He says nothing, merely looking you over as if you are a prime piece of meat for sale. Greed glitters behind his eyes, as it does your mother’s. It’s then that you realize you’re being laid out as bait for Thurston, for his money.

Outsider’s eyes. There’s nothing you can do. Nothing will sway your parents’ minds, now that they know what prize awaits if Thurston does marry you.

“Do this, Breanna,” says your mother intently, “and your whole life will change for the better. There’s endless benefits in store for you, if only you can bring in Thurston.”

Deny them, and you’ll be punished- that part goes unsaid. They took Phyllis away out of sheer spite. Who knows what they’ll do to you if you refuse?

“I’ll do it,” you tell them.

~

Your mother dresses you the morning of the appointment, rambling on about Thurston while you stare dead-eyed out the window, watching the city skyline and imagining being far away. Finally, with a sharp yank on your corset stays, she deems you ready, and you accompany your father in the coach to Conway Bank.

The divide between rich and poor seems to have grown in the past few years, you reflect, watching the streets pass by through the coach’s window. The young Empress is only a few years older than you, but the city she inherited was already corrupt from Euhorn Kaldwin’s reign. The city had been prosperous under his leadership, albeit at the expense of the lower class. Mass industrialization had only highlighted the differences between the ruling class and the workers who made their wealth possible. Even if you hadn’t already been reading about these topics, it’s a hard dichotomy to ignore, especially when faced with the grandeur of the approaching Conway Bank. Marble columns, heavy carved doors, floors polished to perfection- yes, the nobility would have had to blind themselves to such inequalities from a young age.

If it hadn’t been for people like Phyllis and Fitz, you muse, stepping inside the bank with your father, you might have ended up just like every other rich girl in town. You might yet, if your parents have their way.

“I’m here for my appointment with Mr. Thurston,” your father tells the clerk behind the counter. “I’m setting up an account for my daughter, Breanna.”

“Just a moment, sir,” says the clerk. “I’ll fetch Mr. Thurston.”

It must be a testament to the power the Ashworth name still holds that Thurston arrives so quickly.

“Lord Ashworth,” he says, extending his hand. “I’ve been hoping to do business with you.” He shakes your father’s hand, but his eyes are on you.

“And Miss Breanna.” He takes one of your hands in both of his. “It seems fate has brought us together again.”

“I wouldn’t call it fate,” says your father, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “Breanna was the one to broach the topic of opening an account with your bank.” A complete lie, but you instantly realize why he’s led in with it. It makes you seem like you’re interested in meeting Thurston again.

“Did she now?” Thurston actually winks at you. “The young lady chose wisely. When one grows to a more independent age, it’s important to know how to manage one’s money. Shall we head to my office?”

The process goes smoothly, if incredibly uninterestingly. There’s a lot of legal wording, but you’re able to tune out for most of it, at least until you’re given the combination of your new deposit box here.

“Keep this safe, my dear,” says Thurston. “You’re in charge of it now.” His fingers brush yours when he hands you the slip of paper, and you suppress a shudder.

Finally, you’re allowed to leave. Thurston escorts you to the tall, imposing doors of the bank and shakes hands with your father.

“A pleasure to work with you, Lord Ashworth.”

He then turns to you. You extend your hand for what you think will be a handshake, but shockingly, Thurston instead takes your hand to press a kiss to the back of it, as if the two of you were departing a ball held perhaps a century ago.

“Miss Ashworth,” he says, ignoring or maybe not recognizing your utter horror. “It was lovely to see you once more. Please feel free to stop by whenever time allows.”

Your father practically emanates self-satisfaction on the way home. You stare listlessly out the window, overcome with a crawling feeling of violation. This whole arrangement- it’s as if you belong to any man who decides so and not yourself. Never yourself.

At home, your mother’s vengeful smugness is a sharp contrast to your growing despair. At least before, you’d had the possibility of marrying someone you could at least tolerate, some man who speaks little and avoids touching you. Now it seems as if nothing will dissuade your parents from dangling you like bait in front of Thurston’s disgusting maw. Lying in your bed, dark thoughts come to you, as they tend to do past a certain hour. Fantasies of death, the sort you’d had in the weeks following Phyllis’s departure and, truthfully, many years prior to that.

You make a promise to yourself: if your parents manage to marry you off to Thurston, you will find a way to die before that fateful wedding night. Perhaps you’ll make it look like an accident; perhaps not. All that matters is taking the last escape available to you.

You dream strangely that night.

It’s a clear departure from your regular nightmares. There’s no crowds laughing at you, no monsters or serial killers hunting you through the midnight streets of Dunwall.

Instead, you find yourself standing in a rose garden, under a vast purple sky. Black clouds loom in the distance, promising rain. The path is unclear, almost mazelike.

_Breanna._

Who’s calling you? The voice sounds so far away.

_Find me._

The scene changes suddenly, and you’re standing in a warped alleyway, painted in strokes of bright, abstract color. The sound of water rushes in your ears. Etched in violet before you on the ground is a familiar symbol: the rat, four limbs outstretched.

The setting dissolves again and reshapes into a wood-paneled room that tilts dizzyingly back and forth. Then it’s gone, replaced with a wide river to your left and a crumbling brick structure to your right. Words are painted on the brick, but you can’t make them out. The more you focus on them, the more they seem to rearrange themselves, frustrating you.

 _I’ll be waiting_ , says the strange, distant voice. You try to shout back to it, but your own voice doesn’t work, and the scene is slipping from you, dripping like watercolors down a canvas-

And then you’re waking to the sound of crows outside your window, blinking the sun out of your eyes. You lie there in bed for another few minutes, vaguely recalling the strange dreams you’d had as a child. As you’d grown older, you’d stopped ascribing meaning to them, for the most part. But this one…

After some consideration, you rise from bed to retrieve the little leather book hidden under your mattress. It feels silly to do so, but you record a quick description of the dream. Just in case.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Those with nothing left to lose will dare all.”

                             - _The Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

The next day, Martha delivers you a wax-stamped letter with your name on it. You have a sinking feeling that you know what this is about, which is only confirmed when you open the letter.

_Dear Breanna,_

_I enjoyed seeing you at the bank yesterday with your father, and I hope to do more business with you in the future. However, I find myself wanting to become more acquainted with a lovely woman like yourself outside of a professional context. I’d like to invite you to dinner at my home this Thursday, at 7 PM. I hope you can make it, and I look forward to speaking with you again soon._

_Yours,_

_Emil Thurston_

_P.S- I have a large private collection of books that I am certain you would be interested in seeing._

Your stomach churns while reading it, especially at the little post-script intended to lure you in. Even if you were remotely interested in men, Thurston is far older than you. You scarcely know each other, and yet he insists on getting you alone. Worst of all, accepting the invitation means you’ll owe him something in his eyes. There are few men you’d less like to be indebted to.

Throwing away the letter occurs to you, but your father would almost certainly find out eventually in interacting with Thurston. In a flash, you recall your mother’s wild rage when, at eighteen, you disrespected that Crawford boy. No, you can’t disobey them.

It’s a long, slow resignation, you find.

The first dinner with Thurston is bearable. You mostly listen to him as he talks at you and occasionally provide input, which he seems to find amusing. It must help that you fully understand what he’s talking about, perhaps (you suspect, at times) better than he does. Thurston makes good on his promise to show you his library, which is not quite as extensive as you’d hoped and seems to consist largely of economic manuals. You leave his vast manor feeling drained but not hopeless.

The months that follow grind you down.

Thurston continues to court you in the most obnoxiously public way possible. You attend plays with him and, red-faced, overhear the nearby nobles gossiping about Emil Thurston’s pretty young arm candy and her scandalous past. More tolerable are the walks through the city, during which you can at least enjoy the scenery. You cannot fathom what he derives from your time with him, when your side of it is so unpleasant. Your parents are over the moon when he finally comes to the manor for dinner. They take care of most of the conversation that night. You head to bed as he engages in some hushed conversation with your parents.

The next day, when you descend the stairs, you find out what that conversation was about.

Your parents are sitting in the living room, looking as though they might burst with conceit.

“Breanna,” says your mother when you reach the foot of the stairs. “We have such good news for you!”

You freeze. If they consider something to be ‘good news’, it’s almost certainly going to be disastrous for you.

“Emil Thurston has asked us for your hand in marriage,” says your father.

“And we’ve accepted!” your mother finishes, beaming with pride not in you, but in her own scheming abilities.

They accepted. Thurston asked them, not you. You have no say in it.

“Well?” your father prompts. “Aren’t you pleased?”

“I- I’m overwhelmed,” you stammer, which is technically the truth. Your mind reels in horror at the news.

“You should be thrilled,” says your mother. “Thurston is a very rich man. He’ll take good care of you.”

“Of the family, you mean.”

“Well, yes, that too,” she says with a vile little giggle. “He’ll be stopping by tonight to pick you up for dinner. We’ll discuss the wedding plans then, yes?”

You nod speechlessly, unable to do anything else. Your father waves you away then as he and your mother dive into conversation about the wedding. Your part in this is marginal, it would seem. Just a body, a doll-like daughter to auction off to the highest bidder.

You hate them. So much.

That night, you dream again the same dream that has haunted you since your first visit to Conway Banking. Always the roses, vines and plant life covering the land for miles and miles. Then the three visions: the violet rat symbol, the warping wooden room, and the lettered brick building by the river. The dreams have grown more vivid and insistent. You worry that they symbolize some kind of mental break. Even stranger is that voice, calling again and again to you.

Tonight, it says something different.

You’re by the river, next to that building whose lettering shifts frustratingly. You’ve made out the first word after several of these dreams: Horizon. What could that possibly mean?

As you ponder the question, the voice returns.

 _I can help_ , it says.

In anger, you shout back. This time, the words actually leave your mouth.

“How can you possibly help me?” you scream into the dark sky. “I’m trapped!”

You have difficulty making out the next words it says.

_…a way out. An escape._

Suddenly, the scene begins to make sense. The occult symbols. The communication through dreams. The void-like sky above. The tempting message: a way out.

“Are you the Outsider?” you ask, far quieter this time.

You wake before you get an answer, groping frantically for your journal to write down these new revelations. A frustrated shriek rises in your throat at having been so close to an answer, at last. You muffle it in your pillow and lay still a while.

~

It takes you a while to accept one of two potential truths:

One: you are losing your mind to the stress of your situation, and your madness is manifesting in dreams that promise an escape from your suffering.

Two: some occult figure, Outsider or otherwise, is actually speaking to you through dreams, and they have the power to rescue you from your family and Thurston.

The first option is too painful to accept, so you opt for the second one.

It’s not so outlandish, really. The presence of Overseers in the world (and of the Abbey in general) suggests that magic is real and accessible to common people. At five years old you’d seen a witch carried off to her execution. That experience had stuck with you. If an herbalist like her could have had access to magic, then is it unrealistic to think that you may be in contact with that same power?

Even in your mind, the justifications seem to ring hollow. If this person were so powerful, why can’t they manifest outside of your dreams? Isn’t the Outsider supposed to appear to you, in the form of a young man? Some things don’t make sense, you admit. And so you avidly pursue answers by night.

A few days later, you manage to have that same dream again. This time, you’re prepared as soon as the setting shimmers into being around you.

“Who are you?” you call. “Tell me your name!”

There’s a long silence, during which you start to panic. The scene around you dissolves into blackness.

Then, the voice speaks.

 _Delilah._ _My name…_

It fades off again, and you call back to it.

“Delilah?”

Her next words are adamant. _Find me_.

And, inevitably, you wake again. As always, you scribble your memories of the dream down in your journal before you can forget.

Delilah. A woman’s name, a feminine voice. Not the Outsider, then, but perhaps related to him somehow. There’s a name for the women who worship the black-eyed god, you reflect.

Witch.

Like a train with its brakes cut, the wedding plans surge on, fueled by their own momentum without your input or approval. Tailors are hired to begin constructing your wedding outfit, mostly according to Thurston’s traditional tastes. Caterers are contacted for the after-party. Thurston begins looking into honeymoon plans and tells you about them in the moments when he manages to get you alone. His words make your skin crawl.

One afternoon, your mother orders you to go find your birth certificate and bring it to the Overseers so they can approve the wedding. As you recall, you kept it in the back of a drawer in your desk for safekeeping. In front of it lie your journals from childhood, full of notes and handwritten stories, complete with little illustrations in pen.

On a nostalgic whim, you go through a few of them. Here’s notes from your earliest classes with Professor Fitz, scribbled in your untidy handwriting. Your spelling improved throughout the year, as you can see by flipping the pages. Oh, and here’s the book where you wrote out all those ‘novels’ that you and Phyllis composed in the attic years ago. Another worn journal contains all your sketches and notes on the occult symbols you’d found in Dunwall. It’s the most recent one. When you open it, a page falls out of the front, drifting to the floor. Frowning, you pick it up and open it.

This handwriting isn’t yours.

 _Dear Breanna,_ it reads. With a gasp, you recognize whose script this is.

_I know you’ve had a rough time lately, and I don’t just mean last night. It pains me to see you brought so low. When we talked while you were stuck in the cellar, you managed to be brave for me, but I know you must have been hurting._

_I’m writing this because I consider you my best friend, and I fear we may soon be separated. Your mother is talking to mine downstairs, and it doesn’t sound like a friendly conversation. Whatever happens, you mustn’t blame yourself. I’ve treasured our time together, and it’s been a great joy to grow up with you. You’ve become such a strong, clever, and caring woman. But as you’ve gotten older, I’ve watched you grow sadder and sadder._

_Regardless of what may come, Breanna, I want you to find happiness. Find it and cling to it. Even if we never see each other again, this is my wish for you. Remember the good times we’ve had together, all those endless hours writing stories in the manor. Remember me, if it brings you joy to do so._

_My dearest friend. I wish only the best for you. Goodbye._

_All my love,_

_Phyllis_

Tears are welling up in your eyes before you even reach the second paragraph. By the end, you’re sobbing uncontrollably, hunched over your desk. Phyllis must have thought you’d find the note sooner; she most likely wrote it and hid it in the scarce minutes during which your mother was firing her and Marianne.

And now it’s too late to fulfill her wish. It’s too late to find happiness in this life, because there is none left. Phyllis knew you best, and she saw the misery that was overtaking you when no one else did. She knew what you would do to escape, that horrible last resort.

You wipe away your tears and hold the note close against your chest, heaving harsh, ragged breaths.

You cannot despair. You cannot give in.

She wanted you to be happy. Happiness will only come to you if you leave this life behind.

Another option has presented itself. It’s only logical that you will follow it, mad as it seems.

You’ll find the witch, Delilah. You’ll leave your fiancé and your family name behind and follow her. Whatever she offers, it has to be better than what you have here.

~

Desperation makes you manic.                                     

Night after night, you pore over your notes, searching for some sort of connection between the images you’ve seen. The rat symbol is in numerous locations all over the city, likely in ones you haven’t even found yet. But you’ve never seen it near a room like the next image in the recurring vision. And the painted words on the brick, shimmering in and out of existence, _Horizon_ , the rest unintelligible. Is it a message? A direction?

You sit back in your chair, illuminated by your lamp’s dim glow, and rub at your temples. There’s a key piece missing from this puzzle; you’re certain of it. The illustrative palette of your dreams doesn’t match reality, which only makes it more difficult. It’s like you’re moving through a painting-

A painting.

Perhaps you’ve been looking at this all wrong.

You’ve been treating each scene as part of a whole, sketches of a greater image. That’s why you’ve run into so much trouble- you can’t find a single place that matches all of the illustrations you’ve been given. You’ve been standing too close to the picture, examining individual strokes of paint instead of the larger image.

Maybe you haven’t been given an image of a single meeting place.

You’ve been given a map.

Jerking forward in your seat, you begin to scribble in your notebook. If it’s a sequence, not an image, then the rat pictograph is likely your first stop. And then, the tilting wooden room. It may not even be near the same place as the rat symbol. There’s still too many possibilities to eliminate, so you move on for now to the third image. _Horizon_ \- you’ve never seen a building with that word on its side. The other two images were of real places, presumably, so _Horizon_ most likely isn’t a direction or a message.

 _Advertisement?_ You scribble the word in your notes, surrounded by several question marks. What other reason would there be to paint the word on a wall? You don’t know any companies with that word in their name.

But- oh.

You know someone who might.

During the next day’s brunch with Thurston, over sausage and pastries, you manage to sneak the question into conversation. He’s going on about some deal he’s just secured with James & Co., giving you a play-by-play of how he acquired their business, when you ask.

“Emil?”

He breaks off mid-sentence. “Yes, my dear?”

“Have you ever done business with a company- I’m sorry, the full name’s gone and escaped me. I believe it’s Horizon? Horizon Something?”

“Horizon Trading Company?” That’s it, that’s got to be it. Three words, beginning with Horizon. You suppress your excitement as Thurston leans back in his chair.

“My dear, Horizon Trading is based out of Serkonos. I’m surprised you’ve even heard of them, their nearest warehouse is miles downriver.”

“To the south?” you blurt out.

He gives you a strange look. “Yes, to the south. Why do you ask?”

Your hands are clenched in tight fists below the table. “I- I think I saw an advertisement of theirs in the paper. I thought they might be new to Dunwall.”

Thurston pushes his spectacles up his nose. “As far as I know, they don’t have much of a presence here. If they did, I assure you I’d be working with them. Now, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about our honeymoon villa…”

His voice fades to background noise, and as soon as he leaves the manor, you rush back up to your room. You scribble a new note in the journal- _Horizon Trading Company warehouse: end of the line? South down the Wrenhaven. Look for building with that name on the side._

That’s one piece of the puzzle solved. One step closer to finding Delilah. You get up and pace around the room, hands pressed against your face, heart pounding fast in the cage of your ribs. What next?

That afternoon, you leave the manor on your own. Now that you’re engaged, your parents have allowed you far more freedom than before. No longer must you be accompanied by a friend every time you so much as run an errand. They’re so wrapped up in planning your wedding that they scarcely even notice you leaving.

You’ve marked down every location in the city where you’ve found that rat symbol. There’s five to check: an abandoned apartment north of the Clocktower, the back alley behind a pub in the Old Port District, a sewer grate by Kaldwin’s bridge, an aqueduct in the Old Waterfront, and the side of a warehouse in Drapers Ward.

Your first three stops yield nothing, and just standing around by them and waiting is making you feel very stupid. You head to the aqueduct next, despair sinking in as you ponder if this might have been a waste of time after all.

You’re not alone when you reach the aqueduct, though. There’s a figure there- a child, perched right next to the rat symbol you’d come to investigate, dangling their feet in the curved space of the aqueduct. As you approach, their head lifts to squint at you. A young street boy, by the looks of it.

You stand around for an awkward minute before the child speaks.

“You lookin’ for someone, miss?”

You nod quickly. The shadows under the rafters of nearby buildings are still and unmoving; there doesn’t seem to be anyone else here.

The kid tosses a pebble into the aqueduct, where it _plings_ off the opposite wall before dropping into the water at the bottom.

“Come back this evening, around eight. They’ll meet you here. And don’t forget the coin!”

“Th- thanks,” you stammer, casting one last glance around before fleeing back home.

You really have no idea what that was about, but with luck, it’s something that will help you escape. Delilah wouldn’t have sent you there otherwise, right?

You record your findings in the journal when you return home before tucking it away. What the boy said about coin worries you; you don’t have much on hand, and your parents still watch your withdrawals from the bank very carefully. All through dinner, you’re distracted and anxious, impatient to return to the aqueduct.

“Breanna, did you hear me?” You snap out of your thoughts to find your mother frowning at you.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

She rolls her eyes. “We’re finalizing the seating chart. Lisette Gordon and Margaret White currently aren’t speaking to each other, so we need to move at least one of them.”

“Move Margaret next to the Mayweathers, she likes them.” So much so that she’s having an affair with Lord Mayweather. You take a quick sip of your water. “Also, I forgot to drop those invitations off at the post office today. Can I go do that now?”

“Maker’s sake, Breanna, you couldn’t have mentioned that earlier? Hurry, then, they’ll close soon.” Your father waves you away, and you make your hasty getaway.

You head straight for the aqueduct, having in fact sent those invitations this afternoon. Your handbag contains about thirty coin, though you’ve no idea what you might need it for. The streets are lit now by floodlights, which seem to grow dimmer the farther you go from the Estate District. You hurry to the Old Waterfront, staying to the main streets and avoiding the pitch-dark alleys. The rush of the Wrenhaven’s waters seems louder at night. You follow it until it brings you to the aqueduct you’d visited earlier.

Immediately, you can make out a group of people gathered where the boy had been this morning. They’re sitting around a lamp, smoking and talking, and don’t appear to be engaged in any particular activity. There’s a pair of women, three men, and the boy from this afternoon. He notices you first when you emerge from between the buildings.

The whole group ceases their conversation, and two of the men who’d been sitting against a wall jump to their feet.

“Yeah, that’s her,” you hear the kid say to one of the women, who steps forward. She’s muscular, with short dark hair pulled back from her face. She looks you over suspiciously.

“You came here earlier?” she asks. You nod. She jerks her head at the group behind her, and the other four adults step past you and into the alleyway behind you.

“Nothing here,” one of them calls, and they head back to join the woman in front of you.

“Hope you’re not offended,” she says. “We always do a check. Can’t have our customers followed. You brought half up front, right?”

“Half of what?”

“You weren’t told the rate?”

“I- I wasn’t told anything,” you stammer. Her eyes narrow. “I don’t know what I’m even paying you for.”

“The hell? Then how’d you find us? Who are you, anyway?” The rest of her group is starting to look on edge, their hands hovering near what are surely concealed weapons. One of them glares at the child who’d spoken to you earlier.

“Who I am doesn’t matter. I need a way out of Dunwall. A…friend told me to meet you at this symbol.” You point at the pictograph of the rat. “That’s all I know.” There’s a long silence. The woman’s gaze is sharp and unflinching.

“Can you get me out of here?” you blurt out at last. “Please, I don’t know what else to do.” Whatever this group does, you’re certain they’re your last hope.

“Okay, calm down,” says the woman, holding up one hand in a placating gesture. “Our contacts are usually supposed to give you more info, but you’re in the right place.”

“The name’s Anne. This here’s my crew.” She jerks a thumb at the group behind her. “My ship’s the Bloated Hagfish. We run general cargo up and down the river. Mostly warehouse stock, machine implements and stuff. Sometimes, though, the cargo is people. You get what I’m saying?”

You’re piecing it together. “You smuggle people out of Dunwall?”

“Not as a charity, mind you. The going rate’s ten coin per mile. You pay half up front and the rest when we deliver you safely to your destination, wherever that is. Oh, and it’s a hundred extra if you’re wanted by the city watch for any crimes. You’re not wanted, are you?”

“Of course not.” You’re still struggling to take all this in.

She shrugs. “Never hurts to ask. Most people flee this city for a reason.”

One of the men behind Anne speaks up. “Where are you trying to get to?”

“The Horizon Trading Company warehouse, downriver. I don’t know how far it is, though.”

He frowns. “You want us to drop you off at a warehouse? You sure about that?”

You nod quickly. Anne turns to the shorter man beside the one who just spoke. “Jason, d’you know the place she’s talking about? How far is it?”

He bites his lip and seems to ponder a moment before responding. “I’m only aware of one Horizon warehouse anywhere near us, and I think that one’s about thirty-five miles south of here.”

Three hundred and fifty coin. You don’t have that kind of money on hand.

“So that’ll be one hundred and seventy-five coin delivered a week prior to your departure date, and the other half when we get you there. Sound fair?” Anne works out the math nearly as fast as you do.

“Yes,” you tell her. “I can get you the coin.” You hope.

“We’ll see. When do you need to leave?”

As of now, the wedding’s scheduled for the 28th this month, the Month of Timber. That leaves you with two weeks to get the coin and prepare to leave. “Sometime before the 28th. Maybe a week before.”

“We scheduled to do any more pickups then, Marcus?” Anne calls over her shoulder. The third man, who hasn’t spoken yet, shakes his head no.

“Right, then.” Anne turns back to you. “Sounds like a deal. I’ll need a name from you, though. It’s only fair.”

Your pulse thrums a little faster, and you struggle to keep a neutral expression. “I don’t see why that’s necessary. All that matters is that I pay you, correct?”

“Well, we need a little trust from you,” says Anne, crossing her tattooed arms over her chest. “I’ve taken a risk by even telling you this much. For all I know, you could head straight home and report us to the Watch. Our contacts usually get us the real deal in terms of clients, but there’s been close calls before. Give us your name, and we’ll be here when you need us.”

Everyone in the group is watching you now, but you can’t back down now. All you can do is pray that they won’t turn you over to your family in hopes of some reward.

“My name’s Breanna.”

“Surname, please,” the boy chirps. You shoot him a sharp look.

“Ashworth. Breanna Ashworth.”

A murmur breaks out among Anne’s crew. Anne’s only reaction is to raise one thin eyebrow, but she does you the courtesy of not remarking further on it.

“Good to meet you, Breanna. You best head home now, before anyone starts looking for you.”

You nod, pulling your overcoat a little more tightly about yourself.

“Thank you,” you tell her, before turning tail and rushing back to the manor.

~

Despite all the usual wedding-related distractions, your mind never wavers from your one goal: get the coin for Anne. Your parents are watching the wedding expenses closely; there’s no way you’ll be able to slip something by them. As it is, you’re uncertain of if they already suspect you of something. Your mother especially doesn’t give you a moment’s rest from the endless preparations: booking the venue, selecting the decorations, paying a five-man band to play at the event, even commissioning a painter to immortalize you and Thurston on your wedding day. It’s enough to make your head spin; you can’t help but compare it to your ill-fated graduation party.

And of course, Thurston is omnipresent at the manor, though he somehow manages to avoid helping out with most of the tasks. He mostly sits in an armchair in the living room, sipping wine and trying to engage you in conversation as you pass by. If nothing else, Thurston still seems besotted with you.

He may yet be of use.

You get him alone one evening, two days after you’d spoken with Anne, hyper-aware of the five days you have left to get half of the payment to her. Each passing hour is an added weight on your already-strained nerves. If Thurston doesn’t get you what you need, you’ll have to resort to riskier methods.

“Darling,” you greet him on his way out of the house, when you’re certain your parents aren’t around. “Could I have a word?”

He looks surprised at your sudden appearance, but he slips off his coat and replaces it on the rack.

“Of course, my dear. I had thought you’d retired for the night, what with how busy you are these days. I feel as though I rarely get to speak to you!”

That was intentional on your part. You cover up with a shrug and an apologetic smile.

“But we’ll have plenty of time together after the wedding, won’t we?” It’s easier to speak about your future now, knowing that you have a way out. Easier to look him in the eyes when soon, you’ll never have to see the old braggart again.

“Of course,” Thurston laughs. “The big day can’t arrive soon enough!” He winks at you.

“I wanted to talk to you about something I had planned for after the wedding. A surprise, actually.”

“A surprise? For me?” Oh, you’ve got one hell of a surprise coming for him.

“Well, I’d hate to ruin it by telling you about it,” you say to him, stepping closer and turning on the charm. “But I may need your help to make it happen.”

“Just say the word, my dear.”

You force yourself to lay one hand on his elbow. “There’s a special present I’d like to get for you, as a wedding gift. I know you’ll love it, but…” You allow yourself to trail off.

“What is it?” Thurston prompts you, fully interested now.

“It’s a bit pricey,” you say, heaving a sigh. “And the money I’d need for it is stashed away in the account my father set up for me at your bank. He’s so wrapped up in the wedding plans, I don’t think he’d allow me to make any withdrawals right now.”

“It’s not a problem,” says Thurston with a jovial wave of his hand. “Money is no object for me. Just bring me to the store where this ‘surprise’ is being sold, and I can pay for it. I don’t even have to see it, so it’ll still be a surprise.”

“ _No!_ ”

Too late, you realize the forcefulness with which you’d spoken. Thurston looks a little taken aback, so you lean in closer and feign a chuckle.

“It would hardly be a wedding gift if you paid for it yourself, is what I mean to say. All I wanted to ask of you was to give me access to my account, so I can take out the money myself.”

He still looks damnedly ambivalent, so you repress your disgust in order to snuggle up closer to him.

“I just want to do something special for you, as your future wife. You’re my fiancé, but you’re also my banker, right?” Maybe appealing to his love of power dynamics will have some effect.

“I don’t see why not!” he says at last, after a considering pause. “The account is in your name, after all, so it’s only fair that you should be able to access it as you please. How about I bring you by Conway this weekend? Will that give you enough time to get this ‘surprise’?”

Relief floods through you. “That would be perfect, Emil. Thank you so much!”

You steel yourself and press a kiss on his cheek before bidding him goodnight and fleeing back upstairs, heart pounding fast in your chest. One step closer to freedom.

The transaction at Conway goes without a hitch. You even convince Thurston to look away as you unload your safe, with the excuse of wanting to keep the value of his gift a secret, lest he determine its nature.

“That sounds like a lot of coin!” the old fool calls from across the room, back dutifully turned as you empty every last cent of your inheritance into a suitcase.

“Hush, dear, no guessing!” you call back, true jubilance infusing your voice. Your family’s money has never made you feel more powerful than right now. What you have here will be more than enough to pay Anne with. You’ll bring the rest to Delilah.

On the 19th, you make another excuse to your parents and leave the manor after to find Anne and her crew at the Old Waterfront. It’s getting more difficult to give them the slip as the wedding draws closer; you fear they suspect something. Escaping the manor for good will be a challenge with how closely they’re watching you.

As before, the crew ensures you weren’t followed before bringing you to Anne.

“Miss Ashworth,” she greets you. “Glad to see you’re still committed. You’ve got the payment?”

You open your bag and show it to her. She smiles at the sight of it, showing missing teeth.

“Excellent.” She makes to take it from you, but you step back, closing the bag.

“I want to see the ship,” you tell her.

“You don’t trust us?” She cocks her head to the side.

“I’ve held up my end of the bargain so far. I’m not asking much.”

Anne is silent, considering.

“We might as well, Anne, she’s going to need to recognize it when we pick her up,” says a man you recognize from before- Jason.

“Hand over the coin and I’ll bring you to it,” says Anne at last. “Come on, we’ve nothing to gain by scamming you now when we only have half the payment.”

Reluctantly, you hand her the bag. She hefts it appraisingly.

“Shrewd businesswoman, eh? I’d have expected you to be a bit more naïve, knowing most girls your age.”

“I’m not most girls. Let’s see this ship of yours.”

One of the crew whistles in mockery or appreciation; it’s unclear.

Anne takes you to a dock further down the river, where a number of cargo boats are currently docked. You see names like _The Debonair_ , _Helena_ , and _River Pearl_ painted on the sides of wide wooden ships stacked high with crates and boxes. Conversation drifts down from a few decks; the smell of smoke and sweat permeates the dockyard. Anne leads you over to a squat, unglamorous freighter on whose sides you make out the name _The Bloated Hagfish._

“This is it,” she tells you. “Might as well take you to see the inside.”

Your footsteps ring out on the stairs as Anne leads you into the dark lower deck of the ship.

“You’ll be staying down here, for obvious reasons. There’s a hiding place for you in case we get boarded, which hasn’t happened in a long time.”

The dim lamplight illuminates the large room before you, filled with barrels and shelves. Below your feet, the ground shifts back and forth with the water, tilting your view of the lower deck. It’s an achingly familiar image, and for a frustrating moment you can’t place where you’ve seen this before.

Then- oh. Of course.

“This is it,” you breathe.

“What was that?” Anne calls, already heading back up the stairs. You scarcely register her voice.

The second part of the vision, the tilting wooden room. _Of course._ It wasn’t a building at all. The back-and-forth rocking was meant to be a clue. What a fool you were, to not have figured that out sooner. Yet your annoyance with yourself soon fades, replaced by a rush of relief. Finally, a reassurance that you’re on the right path.

Back by the aqueduct, you rejoin the group where they sit warming their hands over a fire. The man who’d spoken before, Jason, approaches you.

“So you’ll be meeting us on the 26th, then?” he asks. “What time? Evening usually works best for pickups.”

That’s right- you’ll have to figure out how to leave the manor without getting caught. It’ll have to be after everyone’s gone to sleep.

“Maybe eleven o’clock,” you tell him. “How long can you wait here, if there’s any kind of holdup?”

Jason shrugs. “We can wait all night, provided we don’t get word that the Watch is coming through. I recommend not showing up late, though. Anne might decide to fine you by the hour.”

Anne laughs at that, and you can’t help but give a small smile.

“Meet us by the dock Anne showed you,” says Jason. “We’ll be loaded up and ready to make a quick getaway. Don’t bring too much luggage with you, it tends to attract unwanted attention.”

You nod, making a quick mental note of the dock’s location.

“Everything worked out, then?” Anne asks you.

“Yes. I’ll be here with the rest of the payment at eleven on the 26th.”

“Sounds fair. We’ll see you then.” The crew resumes their conversations, and you take your leave.


	4. Chapter 4

“If you have no price you cannot be bought. If you do not want you cannot be bribed. If you are not frightened you cannot be controlled.”

                             - _The Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

Your first priority is packing for the journey.

Under your bed, a hard leather suitcase is stashed, filled with your hardiest and most comfortable clothing, things your parents won’t notice as missing. The rest of your coin is packed there too, along with your notebooks, identification papers, toiletries, boots, and first aid. The more you prepare to leave, the more you realize you have no idea what to expect. When you’d returned from meeting Anne and her crew and fallen asleep, the voice in your dreams had sounded satisfied with you, so you’re definitely on the right path. It strikes you that you have no idea what the woman you seek even looks like. _Delilah._ That’s the name she gave you, and the beginning and end of your knowledge about her. Her dream-link to you has seemed stronger of late, less like a voice yelling across a valley and more like a muffled whisper behind a door. Perhaps she’s growing more powerful.

It occurs to you, after an interminable day of wedding outfit fitting, that this will be your first time venturing outside of Dunwall. It’s possible that you may never return. With that sentiment in mind, you begin to get your goodbyes in order.

Phyllis is lost to you now; you’ve had no knowledge of her location since she was sent away five years ago, though it hasn’t been for lack of looking. You’ll never be able to bid her a proper farewell, the kind she deserves. You imagine telling her you’re abandoning your rich fiancé at the altar to chase after a witch. You think she’d be thrilled by the story; it’s like something out of the fantastic narratives you used to weave with her during those long hours in the attic. _Find happiness,_ she’d said in the letter she left you. You pack her last correspondence with you away with your papers and essentials.

Who else is there? Ella Triss, your faithful shopping companion. She will never understand what you’re about to do; it conflicts too sharply with her values. No, Ella never truly understood you, but then, who among the nobles did? Without her company you may well have lost your mind, and so she deserves some sort of goodbye. You manage to secure a moment alone with her two days before the wedding, as you teeter around the courtyard behind the manor, breaking in the wedding shoes you’ll never wear again.

“I know they’re terribly uncomfortable, Breanna,” says Ella with a sympathetic sigh, “but look how lovely you are in them! They make your legs look _so_ long.”

She reaches to steady you after you nearly trip over a cobblestone, and the two of you settle down onto a nearby bench.

“I just can’t believe the day is almost here! It feels like just yesterday that you met him in that bookstore.”

“Ella?”

“Yes?” She cocks her head attentively, hands folded in her lap.

You take a deep breath. “I just want you to know…how grateful I am for you. You’ve been such a kind friend, and I really don’t know what I would’ve done without you over the years.” You raise her head to meet her wide-eyed gaze. “What I want to say is thank you. For everything.”

Her lip quivers. “Oh, Breanna!” She throws her arms around your shoulders, nearly toppling you off the bench. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you all this time, but I’m happy to have been there for you. We may have both had our doubts about if this day would ever come, but look at you now!”

She draws back, holding you by the upper arms. “And there’s no need to sound so final about it! I’ll be right here when you get back from your honeymoon, and maybe soon I’ll have a wedding of my own to plan!”

You give her a genuine smile. “I’m sure it’ll be no time at all before you’re walking down the aisle yourself.” Ella glows with the praise, and belatedly you realize how badly she wants this for herself.

That leaves only one more person. It’s sort of unsurprising that there’s so few people you’ll really miss from this life. You find his address in a directory of Academy professors.

 _Dear Professor Fitz,_ you write.

What do you say? _Thanks for trying to stand up to my parents, sorry I’m running away to join a witch coven?_ Maybe this is a bad idea. You haven’t seen him in so long.

You sit a few minutes longer, gnawing at the end of your pen, before beginning to write again.

_I know it’s been a while since we’ve spoken. I wish I’d written to you sooner, but to be quite honest, nothing very interesting has happened in my life since you last saw me. I want to thank you for being the best teacher and role model I have ever had. I don’t know if you know how much your encouragement meant to me. It will please you to learn that I never lost my love of reading. Additionally, I always meant to tell you how much I appreciated what you said to my parents. I eavesdropped on that conversation; you remember how insatiably curious I was as a child. Please don’t feel guilty for not having convinced them; I am sure that not even a personal request from Anton Sokolov would’ve swayed their minds. I hope your career has not been damaged as a result of you sticking out your neck for me._

_I’m going on an adventure of my own now, just like the ones I always used to read about. It will take me away from Dunwall, perhaps for good. It’s for this reason that I write to you: to say thank you, and goodbye. You should know that I will be far happier where I am going. It may not be the Academy, but it’s a life I far prefer to the one I live now._

_Best wishes for the future, Professor._

_Yours,_

_Breanna Ashworth_

You seal up the letter and stamp it with wax. It’ll be delivered to him after you’re gone, so there’s no risk of him alerting any authorities, not that he would be likely to.

And that’s it. So little of your life to wrap up here. Soon it’s the 26th, and watching the pretense of the wedding continue around you is like living in some surreal dream. You realize, with a start, that you haven’t thought of killing yourself in a month, ever since Delilah told you there was a way out of this life. That omnipresent misery has finally lifted off you like a heavy grey cloud. You’d thought it was inherent to you all this time, that you were doomed to an early death. The idea that you could be free of it had scarcely occurred to you.

And so, on the night of your departure, you sit through a final dinner, surrounded by your family and fiancé, taking in their faces for the last time as night falls outside in the streets of Dunwall.

~

It’s a few hours past supper, after your fiancé had babbled on and on about the wedding and left you with a kiss on the cheek and odious promises that had turned your stomach. After your mother and father had laughed at his jokes and nodded appraisingly at you, smug and satisfied that their golden goose had been secured. You realize with a start, as you climb the stairs to your room, that you won’t miss them. You’ve never really forgiven them for the future they’d stolen from you, the role they’d tried to crush you into. There won’t be much left to remember you by when you’re done here.

You wait until the manor grows quiet around you, after even the maid has finished her chores and returned home. Then, when all is still around you, you crouch by your bed and carefully pull your suitcase out from underneath it. The books are the heaviest thing in it; combined with your roomy handbag, there’s still space for more items. After a long minute, recklessness gets the best of you. You open your closet and begin taking out the most expensive outfits you own, draping lace-edged frock coats and velvet jackets over your arm until you can carry no more. You stuff them into the suitcase and, on a whim, throw whatever heirlooms and engagement gifts that will fit. As long as you’re getting disowned, you might as well go all the way.

After everything is packed away, you stand back, hands on your hips, and frown at the bulging bag and suitcase full to bursting before you. Now comes the more difficult step of actually getting out of the house. You’ve been brainstorming plans for the past week or so, but even the one you settled on seems near-impossible now. But Anne and her crew are waiting for you, and Delilah still calls from miles downriver. You can’t disappoint her now.

From its hiding place in your bathroom, you remove the long rope made of tied-together sheets and secure one end around the foot of your heavy oak bed. You could almost laugh at the childishness of it all, but this plan carries the least risk of getting caught. It’s lucky that your room is only on the second floor, and that your window overlooks the courtyard behind the house.

The manor settles with a loud creak, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Hastily, you secure the other end of the rope around your suitcase and open the window, cringing at the sound it makes. You hoist the unwieldy suitcase onto the windowsill and, arms straining, lower it foot by foot until it makes contact with the cobblestones below. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you cast one last glance over the room that has housed you since your childhood. The paintings of your ancestors on the wall seem to glare at you, as if cognizant of the dishonor you’re about to bring to the family name. You turn your back on them for the last time and, gripping your makeshift rope tightly, crawl out the window.

The descent is not as easy as adventure novels would have you believe. You maintain your grip on the rope until you’re perhaps a story up from the ground, after which you half-skid, half-fall to the ground below, skinning your knees on the brick wall and landing with a _thump_ on your back. The fall knocks the wind out of you, and you lie there stunned for a moment before urgency seizes you once again, and you struggle back to your feet. Freeing your suitcase from the rope, you make your way to the gate at the back, which leads to a corridor behind several townhouses. Here it’s quiet and unpopulated, unlike the well-lit street in front of the manor. You watch carefully for movement in the shadows, but the townhouses’ occupants appear to be sound asleep.

Every few streets, you’re forced to stop and set down the suitcase, which feels like it’s pulling your arms out of their sockets. Panting for breath, you rest for a moment and gaze out at the night skyline. A ship’s foghorn sounds out from somewhere along the river, lonely and distant. It’s one of your favorite sounds, at least from this distance. There’s music playing somewhere down the street, a somber violin accompanied by a piano. The briny scent of the river is just starting to permeate the air here.

Maybe you won’t miss the people here, but you’ll certainly miss this city.

After a long struggle with the suitcase, you finally make your way to the dockyard. The _Bloated Hagfish_ sits where you’d seen it the previous day, and you can just make out the shapes of several figures standing on the deck. With what’s left of your strength, you wrangle your suitcase over to the gangplank, where Anne stands waiting.

“Didn’t we say not to bring much luggage?” the young boy calls down from the deck. You roll your eyes.

“I brought what I needed. The coin’s in here too, if you want to get paid.”

With a sigh, Anne takes your suitcase from you and heaves it up the ramp.

“Follow me,” she tells you, heading belowdecks, where you find the rest of the crew standing expectantly around. Anne shoots you a significant look, and you crouch to unlatch the suitcase.

“The rest of the payment,” you say, handing her the coin wrapped in an unremarkable burlap sack. As before, she looks inside, assessing the amount you’ve given before deeming it correct.

“Alright, gang, get to your stations. Breanna, you’ll be staying down here for the journey. I’ll show you that hiding place I mentioned.” The crew disperses. You wonder what function each member serves, then think better of asking.

Anne beckons you over to a nondescript area of the wall. She pushes on one board, which swivels to reveal a cramped hollow space in the wall, large enough for one person to stand.

“If we get boarded, which we shouldn’t, I’ll send someone down to alert you. You’ll hide in here. Stay silent and don’t peek out until I give the all clear. Got it?” You nod.

Anne claps a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t freak out. We’ve never failed yet to get a passenger to their destination.” She pauses. “Well, except for that guy who failed to tell us he was a prison escapee up on murder charges. We dumped him off the side of the ship. I thought that was a generous resolution.”

After she leaves, you’re alone in the dark bowels of the ship, which sloshes sickeningly from side to side as it reaches the open river. You curl up against your suitcase, resting your head on your bag. It’s not a comfortable setup, but you’re exhausted, and it’s certainly well past midnight by now.

Drifting off, you determine your one regret: from down here, in the windowless darkness, you won’t be able to watch Dunwall as it recedes in the distance. You scarcely have time to feel a twinge of sadness before thought leaves you entirely.

You dream again. This one seems somehow more in focus, less blurry and faded at the edges. You’re back in the rose garden, the night sky above you.

 _You’re almost there_ , says Delilah. Her voice is such a comfort.

 _I’ll be waiting_ , she says, before it all fades again and you jerk awake.

The ship seems to have come to a halt. You have no idea how long you’ve been asleep, but there’s footsteps and voices from the deck above.

“This is it?” A man’s voice, one you’re not sure you recognize.

“Yeah. Bring her up.”

Panic rises in your throat. Has the ship been boarded after all? Have you been found out?

You’re in the process of trying to hide your suitcase when a figure descends the stairs. Your head snaps up in terror, but it’s only the young boy, the first member of the crew you’d met. Your fear must show on your face, because he holds up a placating hand.

“Don’t worry, it’s just me,” he says, taking a few steps closer. “We’re here, at that warehouse you wanted to be dropped off at. Freya can bring you closer to shore in the rowboat. Come on up.”

Adrenaline still rushing through your veins, you nod jerkily and begin to lug your things up the stairs. The crew is waiting on the deck, and you can see the woman who must be Freya standing by a suspended rowboat, preparing to lower it into the water.

Your first thought is that you’ve never seen so much darkness. The Wrenhaven stretches before you like a long trail of ink. Even at night, Dunwall was lit by streetlights and lanterns. Here, the nearby buildings are completely dark, and the stars above shine far brighter than in the city. There’s so many of them.

“Safe travels, Miss Ashworth,” says Anne with a cordial wave. The rest of the crew nods in acknowledgement to you as you pass. Freya helps you load your things into the rowboat, which descends with the help of Marcus and Jason. You give them a thank-you wave as the rowboat splashes into the river, and Freya takes the oars. She hasn’t said a word so far this evening.

The trip to shore is relatively brief. You mostly stare at the Horizon Trading Company building, which looks just like it did in your dreams. Same brickwork, same lettering, same roof shape. You inspect the shore, but there’s no sign of Delilah yet. The area looks mostly industrial, chains and cranes peppering the skyline. There’s a few taller buildings nearby, and you can make out the silhouettes of half-built ship frames suspended with cables.

The boat crunches to a halt against the sand of the shoreline, and Freya stands up with remarkable steadiness and begins lifting your things out of the boat. You help her with the suitcase and then find yourself standing awkwardly beside her on the sand, looking out at the _Bloated Hagfish_ in the middle of the river.

“Well,” Freya says in a gravelly voice. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” With that, she bends over the rowboat, kicks it off from the shore, and skillfully leaps aboard and retakes the oars.

“Th- thank you,” you call out to her as she drifts away. You are now well and truly alone, farther from home than you’ve ever been in your life.

You make your way over to the Horizon building. All visible entrances unfortunately appear to be locked, and there’s no low windows that you could climb through. The whole yard is silent, and you don’t catch sight of a single other figure out here. You’re beginning to worry again when you catch sight of something familiar, on the ground a few yards from the warehouse. It’s painted in a shade of purple that makes your heart stutter.

A branching tree, with a rat and an eye at its center. You’ve never seen this symbol before. You approach it, dragging your battered suitcase, and examine it further. From here, you can make out a nearby set of concrete stairs leading down from the street level, straight to a rusted door attached to one of the taller buildings. Heart racing, you descend the stairs. It’s so dark down here, but you can see a few unusual vines outlining the door’s frame.

Your hand trembles as you lift it to knock on the door. For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Then it opens to reveal her.

“Breanna,” says the voice you know so well. “I knew you’d make it.”

~

She’s young, younger than you’d imagined. But what had you imagined, anyway? Had you ever attached a face to that siren voice from your dreams?

The witch whose magic brought you here is making you tea on a tiny stovetop in this building’s basement, illuminated by an arrangement of lanterns, and all you can do is sit cross-legged on the ground and stare at her. What had you anticipated? A middle-aged matron? An old woman like the one you’d met all those years ago? Delilah can’t be more than a few years older than you.

“Here you are.” She hands you a warm, aromatic cup of tea and settles next to you on the ground, holding her own cup in both hands. From this close, you can make out her angular features better. Her face is thin, with elegant, high cheekbones. Her hair is cropped short on the sides, nearly shaved, and pieces of it have fallen forward into her face. And- oh dear, you’ve almost certainly been staring too long.

“Thank you,” you tell her, taking a sip from the chipped cup she’s handed you. Now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, you’re noticing how very tired and cold you are, and how your feet are uncomfortably wet from the shoreline. Yet the tea somehow manages to make you feel a thousand times better.

“How was your journey?” she asks, peering curiously into your face. “I was fairly sure you wouldn’t run into any trouble, but I still worried.”

You shake your head. “It was perfectly fine. Anne and her crew were very reliable.”

Delilah sits back, satisfied. “I’m glad to hear it. They seemed like the safest route out of the city. ”

You take another steadying sip of tea. “That was some map you left me. In my dreams, I mean.” It sounds so bizarre to say it out loud, to recognize it in this way. “I’m embarrassed it took me so long to figure it out.”

Delilah gives you an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about that. I tried to be as clear as I could, but…” She looks down at her hands. “I’m still figuring out some of the magic. Sending words is difficult, as I’m sure you figured out. Images are far easier. Hopefully I’ll be able to lay a clearer path for the others that come.”

“The others?”

“Yes.” Delilah sets her clear blue gaze on you. “You’re the first to answer my call. The first member of my coven. Does that surprise you?”

“I- a bit, I suppose.” You’re realizing, with some alarm, that you really hadn’t put an appropriate amount of thought into the decision to come here. Had you really never stopped to wonder if you’d be the first?

“How did you find me?” you ask her. “There are thousands of women just in Dunwall alone. How did you know that I would answer?”

“Ah, that.” She brushes a strand of hair from her face. The gesture mesmerizes you. “When I…search, so to speak, dreams are the easiest way to contact people. But they also give an impression of the dreamer’s life, or at least their current state. I looked for those who needed an escape, a safe haven.”

“And what impression did you find in mine?”

She turns that clear gaze on you. “Pain.”

“Oh.” You lower your head, made vulnerable by the intimacy of the moment.

Delilah leans slightly closer, her brow furrowed. “Are you alright? You look- well, of course, you’re exhausted. Forgive me.” She stands up, and you hand her your now-empty cup. “I was so eager to speak with you that I’ve been keeping you awake. You need to rest.” There’s a strange tattoo on the back of her left hand that you notice, in the light of the lanterns.

“I- yeah, I probably do.” After the warmth of the tea, your eyelids are beginning to droop uncontrollably. “Is there a place for us to sleep here?”

“Yes, I’ve put two mattresses for us upstairs. Oh, don’t worry,” she says, waving you away from your luggage, “I’ll get that for you. You’ve carried it far enough.”

In a dreamlike state, you follow Delilah up a rickety set of stairs to a small room one floor up. The windows have been boarded up, and a few candles are scattered across the floor. You all but collapse onto one mattress as Delilah, with surprising strength, lifts your suitcase over the last step and deposits it next to you.

“It still doesn’t feel real,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. Delilah laughs quietly.

“You must have so many questions for me. I’ll answer them after you’ve gotten some rest.”

“You’ll still be here?” On some level, you’re terrified that you’ll wake and find that all this has been a dream, that you’ve thrown away your life for some mad delusion.

“I’ll still be here,” she reassures you. “Now sleep, Breanna.”

She settles onto the mattress beside yours and lifts one hand. With a quick motion, the room is suddenly cast into darkness. You gasp and shoot upright when you realize that all the candles have been extinguished.

“You-“ You’re speechless.

Delilah lets her hand fall back to her side. “Magic, just as I told you. Soon, it’ll be yours. Rest now.”

So many questions on the tip of your tongue. You’ll have to remember them for when you wake. For now, you collapse back onto the worn mattress and fall into a dreamless sleep as soon as you close your eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

“We are storm, fire, and flood.”

                             - _The Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

There’s an unfamiliar ceiling above you when you open your eyes in the morning. And too much light, did you forget to draw the curtains around your bed last night? The mattress beneath you feels thinner than you remember…

Oh. Right. The events of last night return to you: you’re thirty-five miles downriver from Dunwall, you ran away from home last night to join a coven, and today, on the day of your wedding, your family will find you missing.

Blinking the sun out of your eyes, you push yourself up to a seated position, taking in your new surroundings. This room is fairly bare; scraps of fabric have been hung up over the windows in a less-than-successful attempt to keep the sunlight out. There’s a table over in the corner, bags of fruit and a few plates perched on a shelving unit, and a mess of papers strewn about the floor. This could have been an office, once. You notice a few canvases leaning against the walls, the kind artists use to paint on. But the room is empty, apart from you.

“Delilah?” you call out, though not too loudly. Your suitcase still lies by your mattress, where she’d left it last night. Or was it morning by then? What time is it now?

On your left, there’s the set of stairs leading into the basement. On your right, another set leading upward, to a yet-unseen floor. You take the stairs up, listening for movement.

You find Delilah on the next level, with her back to you. Before her is what appears to be a massive black-barked root, thick as a man’s torso, extending from the wooden floorboards at its base. Something at its core pulses red, and it sways back and forth seemingly at Delilah’s bidding. She’s focused on it, arm extended, when you get her attention.

“Delilah?”

She spins around, dropping her arm to her side, and the root ceases its movement.

“Breanna, there you are. You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

You peer over her shoulder. “What _is_ that?

“Just a little experiment I’ve been working on.” Her words are dismissive, but there’s pride in her voice. “Are you hungry? There’s food for us downstairs.”

When was the last time you ate, anyway? “Sure. What time is it? I feel like I slept forever.” You rub at your eyes, which are still adjusting to the bright light coming through the windows.

“Oh, it’s about four in the afternoon, I’d say.”

“It’s that late?!”

“You went to sleep just before dawn. I thought you could use some rest. I haven’t been awake long myself.” Delilah heads for the stairs, and you follow, casting one last curious glance back at the inactive root. More magic. How incredible.

“Most of the time, I’ve found it better to sleep during the day and be active at night,” she tells you, speaking over her shoulder as you take the stairs down. “Except for the days when I go to sell my paintings, of course. Construction season hasn’t started here yet, but sometimes people come to the area to scavenge around. I prefer not to take the risk of having them see me.”

You perch on a nearby desk as Delilah takes a loaf of brown bread down from a shelf and begins slicing it with a knife from her belt. “There’s a good number of townships scattered around just outside of Dunwall. That’s where we’ll be going to do our shopping and sell my paintings.”

“How often do you go?”

“Once a week, usually. More if I’ve been especially productive.” She passes you a thick slice of bread topped with a few pieces of cheese. It occurs to you suddenly how very hungry you are, and you devour the first slice quickly and with no regard for table manners. Here there’s no one to scold you for chasing the crumbs that have fallen into your lap. You feel Delilah’s eyes on you as you eat and become self-conscious again.

“I thought you might be hungry,” she tells you, passing you another slice. Embarrassed by your obvious appetite, you make a ‘no more’ motion with one hand, but Delilah pushes the bread insistently at you until you take it. She sits on the desk next to you.

“I brought some food to share,” you say, trying to savor the second piece a bit more. “I’d feel bad eating all your rations. And I have some things we can sell, too.”

“Thank you, Breanna. That’s a good idea. But don’t feel guilty for taking what I give you.” She takes a bite of her own slice, chewing thoughtfully. “I brought you here with the intention of providing for you.”

You eat together, watching the light grow dimmer outside as the sun sinks lower towards the horizon. Between bites, you sneak glances at Delilah, noting her long limbs, her clothing just this side of worn. She doesn’t look like the kind of woman you’d expect to find living in an empty industrial building.

“How did you end up here?” you ask, finally.

She looks up from her meal. “In this building, you mean, or at this point in my life?”

“Um. Either one.”

Her gaze flicks to over your shoulder, to where the river can be seen through the far window.

“I lived in Dunwall before, like you. After I was Marked, I realized I couldn’t stay there long, both for personal and practical reasons. I had grown to hate my painting apprenticeship, and it was growing more and more difficult to hide my Mark and my magic. Like you, I had to get out for my own safety.”

She extends her left hand in your direction, palm down, to show you what must be her Mark. Unthinkingly, you take her hand in both of yours, examining it in fascination.

“I recognize this. I saw it in a book, years and years ago.” Back when you’d been researching magic, searching endlessly for some higher meaning to your life. “The book was taken out of print later. The Overseers discouraged printing or drawing the Mark, fearing that it would encourage people to brand themselves with it or spread it as a symbol of the Outsider.” Yet here it is, black as the Void God’s eyes and clearly not a tattoo.

Before your eyes, the Mark glows a bright orange. You gasp and release Delilah’s hand.

“It flares up every time I perform magic.” Unperturbed, she withdraws her hand and places it back on her thigh.

“What were you doing just then?”

“Looking through the wall behind you.” You can’t help but laugh. “What, you don’t believe me? Well, you’ll learn it soon enough.” She seems more amused than anything.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I got off on a tangent. You were telling me about how you came here.”

“That’s right. I did promise to answer your questions, after all.” She takes another bite of her slice of bread and sets it down.

“I left my job two months ago and secured passage downriver. I needed somewhere secluded, but not totally isolated. Somewhere I didn’t risk being found by Overseers. I tried a few other places but settled on this one.” She waves a hand at the structure surrounding the two of you. “This building has plumbing and a stove downstairs, for when the construction workers stay here. No one checks it during Horizon’s off-season.”

“You said you painted, before?” There’s a small, foldable easel in the corner that you’ve been staring at.

“I still do. It was my mentor I hated, not the craft.”

“May I see your work sometime?”

Delilah hops off the desk. “You can see it right now, if you like.” She picks up a canvas that had been leaning in the corner and brings it over to you. “This one was drying earlier, but it should be fine now.”

“Oh,” you breathe when the piece is placed in your hands. “Oh, it’s lovely.”

It’s a painting of the Dunwall Clocktower at sunset. The colors are brilliant, crimson and peach and magnificent orange hues, not true to life but no less beautiful. You realize, suddenly, what it reminds you of.

“It’s like the dreams you sent me,” you tell her. “They were always in such vivid colors, like your painting.”

She nods. “It’s my style. Anti-realism. My mentor hated it. He thought everything should be painted exactly as it appears to the eye.”

“Where’s the creativity in that?” You’re no art connoisseur, but Delilah’s paintings appeal to you in a way that traditional portraiture never had. It’s the sort of art that your mother would accuse of being ‘too modern’ and refuse to hang in the manor.

She smiles. “Exactly. You’d think he’d have a more open mind, being as famous as he is.” You pass the painting back to her, and she replaces it against the wall.

“What was his name? I might recognize it.” Your parents had bought a few pieces from well-known artists to hang around the manor. You’d always gotten the idea that they’d had them mostly to impress guests, not out of any real love of art.

“Anton Sokolov,” she mumbles quickly, as if trying to sneak the name by you. You nearly choke on your last bite of bread.

“ _Anton Sokolov?_ The Royal Physician? Head of the Academy?”

“That’s the one.” She sounds completely unimpressed by the man.

You gape. “What was he like?”

Her face goes carefully blank. “Oh, you know how men of his status are.”

“He wasn’t kind to you, then?” You’re starting to feel as though you shouldn’t push the subject of Sokolov with Delilah, if her expression is anything to go by. It’s disappointing, though, to hear that she’d left his tutelage out of unhappiness with him. You’d always envisioned him as an eccentric, fatherly type. Perhaps it’s true what they say about never meeting your heroes.

“He was about what I had expected from a mentor,” says Delilah. She waves a flippant hand. “But enough about me. You must be wanting to learn some magic by now.”

“Oh, yes.” That is what you came for, isn’t it? To learn the sort of magic you’d read and dreamed so often of? It’s surreal, to be so close to this long-forbidden thing.

You jump off the desk and join Delilah at the center of the room, near where you’d slept earlier in the day.

“I’ll need to share my powers with you first,” she says, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. “You might not want to be standing for this.” You sit as well.

“One of my powers, granted through the Void, is the Arcane Bond. It allows me to pass on my powers to any acolyte. This doesn’t grant you the same mastery that I have, only the ability. You’ll still have to practice frequently. If I die, your powers will vanish.”

(You remember, far later in life, that Delilah had said _if_ , not _when_.)

“Are you ready?” Delilah extends her hand, her eyes locked on you.

You take a deep breath, balancing on the edge of a great precipice.

“Yes.”

You take her Marked hand, which flares with a great burst of light.

Several things happen at once.

Your veins turn to ice, then to boiling oil, then to nothing at all. You, yourself, are nothing at all, floating in a vast expanse, like the darkest room you’ve ever been in, darker than the belly of the _Bloated Hagfish_ , darker than your childhood room at midnight. You are an empty vessel, a conduit.

Yet the terror that flows through you at this realization is tempered by something else, a new sensation.

A connection.

There is a warm bond tying you to a source, an umbilical cord binding you to the power you’ve craved all your life, allowing it to flow through you and into you. You are filled. Your heart pumps some new puissant energy through you, sizzling and as volatile as whale oil.

You open your eyes.

“Breanna!”

Delilah is closer to you now, clutching both your hands. There’s concern in her eyes, but excitement as well, an intense eagerness that matches your own.

“Are you alright?”

You gently pull your hands from hers and hold them in your lap, gazing down. You curl each finger individually, feeling something just below the surface pulse, aching to be released.

“Yes,” you hear yourself say distantly.

“I’ve never been better.”

~

“It’ll be difficult to tap into it at first,” Delilah warns you, as she clears items from the middle of the room. “But once you figure it out, you’ll never have trouble finding the magic again.”

You’re tying your hair up, stretching your arms in anticipation of whatever you’re expected to do next.

“Was it like that for you?” you ask. “When you were marked?”

“Like what?”

“Painful at first. Then frighteningly empty and cold.”

Delilah looks at you in alarm. “Did it really hurt you?” You nod.

She pauses in clearing the mattresses to the side of the room. “I’m sorry, then. This is my first time ever trying to share my powers. I had no idea what to tell you to expect.”

“It’s alright. I was just wondering if you’d felt the same way.”

“The Marking hurt, like being burned with an iron, but on the inside of your skin. The pain faded quickly. What you were saying, about it being empty and cold…that was likely your first brush against the Void. It stops being quite so scary after the first few times.”

“At least we know what to tell the others to expect now,” you muse. Delilah finishes clearing the room and turns to you, brushing off her hands.

“What we’re going to try first isn’t the type of organic magic you saw me use upstairs, but it will be essential to you in the years to come. What have you heard about the transportation abilities of witches?”

You recall a book you’d read, dripping with the Abbey’s dogma, that had a chapter devoted to the unnatural abilities of witches.

“Aren’t they supposed to be able to appear in places without warning? They’re said to have some kind of teleportation magic, I believe. But I’m sure you can correct me on what it really is,” you add, with a short, self-conscious laugh.

“Oh no,” says Delilah, “you’re absolutely correct.”

Your mouth drops open.

“That’s one thing the Overseers got right. It was once believed that witches could fly, because we were so often seen on rooftops and windowsills. But that’s not the true ability. Other witches have called this power Blink, because it allows you to travel somewhere in the blink of an eye. And that’s what I’m going to teach you now. Watch closely.”

Delilah steps to your side, aligning her shoulders with yours. She moves forward, as if to take a step, and then-

She’s on the other side of the room in less than a second, standing as casually as if she’d walked there, twenty feet away. This cannot be real. Any minute now you’ll wake up for real in your bed in the manor, with only dreams of witches to cling to. But your eyes and the singing Void in your veins tell you, clearer than any words, that what you’re seeing is the truth.

And equally quickly, Delilah’s back by your side, a mere breeze marking her out-of-thin-air arrival. You gasp and stumble backward, nearly falling over, but manage to steady yourself against the wall.

“Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to shock you.”

“I can’t believe it,” you breathe, in equal parts shocked and intrigued. “How do you do it?” You straighten up and rejoin her, staring across the expanse of the room.

“First, you’ll need to focus on the exact spot where you want to appear. Let’s pick, say, that one floorboard there with the smear of green paint. You see it?” She points to that area of the floor.

You nod, staring intently at the floorboard as if trying to move it with your mind. Is telekinesis a witch ability? You’ll have to find a way to ask later that doesn’t make you sound ridiculous.

“Now, when you step forward, reach out and imagine grabbing the air over that spot and pulling yourself there.”

You take a step forward, still focused on the spot, and reach your hand out…

Only for your foot to complete one perfectly regular step. You’re still on the same side of the room, completely unmoved. You let out a shuddering, tense breath.

“It’s fine,” Delilah is saying now, “it’ll take some time to get the visualization right. Take a deep breath and let it out.” You comply.

“Now try again. Maybe try closing your eyes and envisioning the spot instead?”

“Close my eyes or keep them open and focused on the spot?”

Delilah makes a helpless sort of gesture. She seemed unused to teaching. “Whichever one works. The focusing worked for me, but maybe it won’t for you. Let’s just try both and see which suits you better.”

You do as she says and find that you have been transported exactly one step away from where you were before, by the very mundane method of walking.

You make a sharp sound of frustration. “Why isn’t it working?”

Delilah’s looking at you with an unreadable expression. You hope it isn’t disappointment.

“You’re used to learning things very quickly, aren’t you?” she says.

“What makes you say that?” you retort.

“I don’t mean it as an insult. You’re obviously very clever, from what I’ve seen. Were you the type to always get good grades in school?” She’s smiling now, though not in a mocking way.

“What does that matter?”

“It took me five tries to move even a few feet with this power, when I first acquired it. You have made two attempts so far.”

Oh. You drop your arms to your sides, feeling a bit sheepish now.

“I know what you’re worried about,” says Delilah. “The power is in you, that much is certain. If I can do this, then so can you. So try it again.”

You turn back to your target, renewed by Delilah’s words. Certainly you can’t be expected to learn this faster than the witch herself.

Another step forward. You keep your eyes open this time.

On the tenth try, something different happens. The air around you goes cold, and your vision tunnels in on the paint-marked floorboard. At first, you think you might be fainting. But then-

Then you’re _there_. Your feet are planted on the green stain and you’re looking out the window, out to the sunset beyond.

“Oh!” You spin around to see Delilah across the room, her face alight with joy.

“I did it!” A warm rush of relief and pride fills you completely, washing away the frigid touch of the Void.

“You did it!” She holds out her arms to you in welcome praise. “Well done!”

“I want to try again,” you tell her, eagerly pacing back to the other side of the room. “It was so quick, I barely knew it was happening until I was already there.”

She rests a hand on your shoulder as you turn to face the opposite wall again. “It’ll be like second nature to you soon. Like hopping over a puddle of water.”

~

By the time night falls, you’ve crossed the room by magic dozens of times. You’re giddy with accomplishment and anxious to keep going, but Delilah stops you with a hand on your arm.

“Don’t overexert yourself,” she warns.

“But I feel fine.”

“Do you? Take a moment to rest.” She guides you to a dilapidated chair, where you seat yourself. Now that you’ve stopped your constant movement, a sense of total exhaustion seems to hit you out of nowhere. You shake your head, confused.

“There’s no way I should be tired. I slept so long last night, and I haven’t even left the apartment today.”

“It’s the magic,” says Delilah, kneeling beside you. “It takes something out of you, especially when used in quick succession like you were doing just now. This is your first time even trying it, I’m impressed you made it this long.”

Ugh, your head hurts like you’re suffering from a nasty hangover. You rub at your temples, feeling unexpectedly drained.

“That’s enough practice for now,” Delilah says decisively. She pulls up another straight-backed office chair and sits opposite you, hands clasped in her lap. “Would you mind if I asked you some questions now?”

“Sure, go for it.” You give her a weak smile.

“You can say no if you’re too tired. I’m just…well. I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you, is all.” She fidgets, a little self-conscious under your tired gaze.

It’s the first time in a while that anyone has seemed interested in you for the right reasons, you realize.

“No, it’s only fair that you get to ask your questions. I already peppered you with mine.”

“Thank you.” She settles back in her chair. “First off, how old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Ah, that’s about what I thought. I’m twenty-seven myself.” Not far off from what you’d estimated for her.

“Have you lived in Dunwall all your life?” she asks next.

“Yes, my family owns a law firm there. I’ve actually never left the city before now.”

“Really? I thought nobles usually took trips outside of Dunwall.”

You shake your head. “Not my family. My father sometimes took my older brother out of the city, but I was never invited along with them.”

“You have a brother, then?”

“Michael. He’s five years older than me. We weren’t close, and I never spent much time with him. My father was training him to take over the family business when he retired.”

“Did you have any siblings?” you add on, already feeling as though you’ve been talking too long.

The question seems to stop Delilah short, and a strange expression passes fleetingly over her features.

“No,” she says at last. “It was just my mother and me.”

“Does she live in Dunwall as well?”

Now you recognize her expression. Sadness. “No. She’s dead.”

“I- I’m so sorry,” you stammer out, flushing with embarrassment. How foolish you’ve been, acting so familiar with a woman you’ve just met. It was inevitable that you’d manage to humiliate yourself somehow.

“She passed away when I was twelve,” says Delilah, averting her eyes from yours. “I’ve long since accepted it. The end was a relief from her suffering.”

“Was she sick?”

She sighs. “In a way. We were…ah. It wasn’t a pleasant time in my life. Mother had lost her job as a cook, and we were sent to a debtor’s prison. A guard broke her jaw there, and it never healed right over the months we were imprisoned.”

“That’s horrible,” you breathe, hands clasped over your mouth.

“She ended up starving to death, unable to eat and weakened by the conditions of the prison. I was still a child, so I was allowed to go out into the streets and beg. I brought her back whatever scraps of food I could obtain. But…she died while I was out one day.” Her voice wavers.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” You don’t know what else to say.

“Don’t be.” She meets your eyes again and gives you a thin smile. “She was a good mother, and she loved me as I loved her. I’d rather have a short time with a woman like her than a lifetime with a bad mother.”

An uncomfortable silence falls. You think of your own mother, likely cursing your name back in Dunwall.

“You can ask me more questions, if you want,” you offer at last.

“Right,” says Delilah, seeming to snap out of some reverie. “I didn’t mean to get so off track. I was going to ask about your interests outside of magic.”

“Interests?”

“You know, hobbies, the sort of thing you do in your free time. For me, it’s painting, but I suppose that’s become my profession now.”

“Oh.” You think a minute. “It’s boring, but I guess reading would be mine.”

“That’s not boring at all,” she counters. “I wish I’d read more books as a child.”

“That’s practically all I did when I was young. They were a wonderful escape for me, but you probably learned far more about the real world than I did.”

Delilah shrugs one shoulder. “Possibly. But one does what one must to survive. For you, it was reading. For me…it was many other things.” She pauses another moment, eyes glassing over. “But you seem like a very learned person. That’s got to be a benefit.”

You flush slightly at the praise. “I’d know more if I’d had a real education.”

“What do you mean?” says Delilah, cocking her head slightly. “I thought all aristocrats were educated.”

“Well, I had normal classes with the other children up until the age of twelve. After that, they separated out the boys and girls. The boys learned useful things, like finances and history, the sort of topics that would help them inherit their family businesses later in life. All my class learned about were things that were supposed to make us competent socialites and housewives. Party planning, fashion, home decoration…” You wave dismissively. “Nothing to do with actual careers, of course. I wanted to go to the Academy, but that dream was obviously never realized.”

Delilah looks surprised. “I had no idea it was like that for the upper class. Segregation by gender and all. It sounds horribly unfair.”

You nod in agreement. “But I got out, thanks to you.”

“And here you are.” She gestures to where you sit with one hand.

“Here I am.”

Outside the sky is ink-black once more, vast and endless like the Void. Maybe it’s the closest thing there is to it in this world. Or maybe that’s the ocean, deep and hostile and infinitely unknown.

“Can I ask you something?” you say to Delilah.

“Of course.”

“What was that vine upstairs? You were controlling it, weren’t you?”

“Yes. That was a project I’ve been working on. I want to develop it into something that can protect a place like this, or wherever we move to next.”

“And so you just…grew it? Out of the floorboards?”

In lieu of a response, Delilah makes a vague gesture with her hand, and a leafy tendril sprouts seemingly from the center of her palm. You lean in, completely enraptured. She twines it around her fingers before speaking again.

“Much of my magic seems to manifest in the form of plants. You’ll see more of it later.”

“Why do you think that is?” The vine shrinks back under Delilah’s skin, disappearing entirely.

“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I wasn’t entirely sure at first. I’ve never been much of a botanist. But…I believe it has something to do with the nature of magic as a whole. It stems from the Void, which spawned this world. The earth below our feet, the trees above our heads, the thorny briars that ensnare us, they’re all connected to the same ancient energy that we witches tap into, in a way that modern machinery and technology is not. And so my magic manifests as nature.”

“Who knows,” she adds with a chuckle, “maybe I’ll come up with some kind of animal magic next. I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first to think of it.”

She smiles at you, honest and true, and you smile back. You can’t even help it.

“Could you teach me more magic?” you ask her, reinvigorated by her demonstration of the vine. “I feel rested now, and I think I could try it again.”

“If you’re up to it,” she responds, rising from her chair. “I think you’ve done enough teleportation for the day. Any more will wear you out anew.”

“So what else is there?” you ask, rising to join her. She turns to you, eyes glittering with excitement.

“Have you ever wished you could see through walls?”

~

Days since the escape become weeks. Weeks become your first two months with Delilah. You spend so much time together, rarely if ever interacting with others, that you start to feel as if you might share one common soul. It would explain a great deal.

You sleep through rainy days on your worn mattress, which Delilah confesses to having stolen from an apartment on her way out of Dunwall. At her side, you steal a number of other essentials, glorying in your rebellion. At night, you share simple meals with her and practice your magic, swapping stories all the while. Delilah describes to you the beauty of Karnaca’s Cypria Gardens, which she’d visited with her artist mentor. You tell her about the night you threw a wine glass in James Crawford’s face, which has long since lost its hazy, nightmarish quality and now seems mostly funny.

In the daylight, Delilah rises before you to paint, and you occupy yourself by repeating what she’s taught you until you feel you might faint. It’s unbelievable how much you’ve learned since the night you first arrived, and yet Delilah promises there is always more. You feel newly powerful, in a way that isn’t tied to your looks or your money or your family name.

Once a week, you travel to a nearby township with her, helping to carry her paintings to the market. Delilah sells them for a cheap price to a local trader, who no doubt brings them to the next city he visits and sells them for a far higher price. She seems to believe she’s getting a fair amount of money for them, but you’ve seen paintings half that quality sell for ten times the price. You tell her as much one day.

She’s walking away from the trader, who has just bought one of her smaller paintings, a landscape filled with purple heath, dotted by large boulders.

“That piece is worth far more than the coin he offered you,” you murmur to her in a low voice. “Why don’t you haggle a bit?”

“I’m not in a position to haggle,” says Delilah. “For now, that man is my only contact for my art. He’s doing something I can’t do right now: get my name out in the art world. He’s selling them back in Dunwall, and each one has my signature on it. With luck, someone in the city will commission me if they like my paintings enough. If I ask for more, I risk losing that link.”

“I just thought-“

“I know,” she interrupts, “of course we could use the money. But until I find someone else who’s interested in my art, we’re stuck with this person. And he knows it.”

You accompany her to pick out your food for the week. This town’s prices are far lower than anything you’d seen in Dunwall, which is a relief. However, the selection can run rather thin.

“A loaf of the brown bread, please,” Delilah’s telling the vendor. It’s not the tastiest, but it lasts the two of you a whole week and, more importantly, keeps your stomachs filled. You pick through the produce and select the least beaten-up fruit you can find. Some butter, cheese, and a few twists of dried meat round out your shopping list. Delilah found a couple earthenware plates a few weeks back that you’ve been using for meals. It feels considerably more civilized than just eating off furniture like before.

You’ve been sharing with Delilah the inheritance money you took from your safe. She hasn’t asked for all of it and supplements it with what she earns from the paintings, but it’s still being used up faster than you’d like. You’ll have to start selling off some of the items you brought with you soon, or find some other means of income.

When you return to the Horizon shipyard in the evening, you don’t find it empty.

There’s eight men milling about, smoking and talking. At first you fear it’s the Watch, but these men wear sturdy work clothes and caps, not a uniform. They block the way to the building where you’ve been living. To your horror, some of them seem to be gathered around the tree symbol that Delilah had painted in the road.

“No, no, no,” you hear Delilah muttering from your riverside hiding place, “they’re not supposed to be here for months now.”

“Who are they?” you whisper.

“Horizon’s construction workers. I thought we’d have more time here.”

“We’ll have to get to our building some other way.” There’s no direct routes from here by the river- you’ll have to sneak into one of the alleyways and ascend from there.

Silently, you and Delilah manage to slip behind the backs of two of the workers. The rest appear to be inspecting the tree symbol on the ground.

“Think it’s occult?” you hear one of the men ask.

“Probably just graffiti,” comes the answer. “Weird-looking, though.”

From a back alleyway, Delilah Blinks up onto an awning, then to a small cement outcropping on a nearby window. She turns and waves you over, indicating that you should follow. You take the same steps she had, nearly losing your footing on the slick outcropping before making it to the third-floor window of the building you live in.

“That was close,” you pant, heart racing.

“Too close,” says Delilah. “There’ll be more of them soon.”

Her prediction turns out to be correct.

You’re woken early the next morning, only a couple hours after you’d gone to sleep, by a loud noise, like someone banging on metal.

“Anyone there?” comes a voice from below. You sit up sharply, clutching your thin sheet around you. Following the noise, you tiptoe down the stairs to the basement. Light streams in through a few cracks in the brick. The sound is clearly coming from the door you’d first entered through, the one Delilah keeps blocked with a chunk of wood at all times.

“Here, pass me the key,” you hear, “let me try it again.”

“I’m telling you, it’s stuck!” comes another voice. “We’ll have to go back to Rudfield and tell him we couldn’t get in.”

“Well, we’re gonna have to get in eventually.”

“I know, I know. I just want to get his permission before we go knocking down doors on his property.”

At that, you rush back upstairs as quietly as you can.

“Delilah.” You shake her urgently, and she comes to blearily.

“Delilah, there’s men here.” She jerks upright with a gasp.

“What? Who?”

“Those construction workers we saw yesterday. They tried to get in through the basement. They said something about coming back to knock down the door when they couldn’t get in.”

“We have to leave,” she murmurs.

“Where can we go?” You’re paralyzed with anxiety, with the fear of being caught and delivered to the Overseers. The consequences of what you’ve been doing with Delilah seem real now, with the threat of being discovered knocking furiously on your door.

The banging and voices cease eventually, and you pack up your things alongside Delilah, already having accepted the need to flee.

“There’s another place I scouted out nearby,” she tells you, rolling up her mattress into a neat spiral. “It’s not much, but it’ll keep prying eyes away from us while you’re learning.”

It doesn’t take long to pack up all of your things. Delilah’s paintings take up the most space; she tucks the larger ones beneath her arm. Her foldable easel hangs off another strap across her back. The two of you do your best to make the building appear as if it hasn’t been lived in for the past two months, but the men are certain to find some clues when they make their way in.

“We won’t be able to leave through that entrance,” says Delilah. “I checked through the wall, some of them are still standing around.”

You nod and head for the window. “Should we get back to the river?”

“Yes, we’ll follow it a few more miles north. That’s where the next safe house is.”

You conduct one final check of the building with Delilah before following her out the window, crossing several rooftops before dropping down to street level at a safe distance from the construction workers.

“I’m sorry,” she says to you, after several silent minutes of traveling. “I thought we’d be able to stay there longer. I hadn’t predicted construction starting early. I know you spent a great deal of coin to get here.”

“Don’t apologize, I’m not upset in the slightest.” You adjust your grip on your suitcase, now considerably lighter than the last time you’d carried it.

Delilah sighs. “You may not be so pleased with me when we reach our next home.”

It takes a few hours to walk to the next location, and you note the scenery changing around you. The landscape turns less industrial the further you walk from the city. The grass grows thicker and taller around you, and the river is less polluted here. You pass the remains of long-abandoned villages, mere clusters of tiny stacked-stone homes. On a hill in the distance you make out the crumbling pillars of some stone mausoleum.

“Don’t worry,” says Delilah, “we’re not as far from civilization as you think. There’s a town nearby where we can get supplies.” To break up the monotony of travel, you talk with her a while, discussing the history of the land and its inhabitants.

The pair of you pass through the town Delilah must have been referring to just after nightfall. A few bars and small restaurants remain open, but most of the citizens seem to have returned home. You get a few strange looks, but nothing more intrusive than that. The town is filled with greenery, more than you’ve ever seen in Dunwall.

You give Delilah a questioning look when you find yourself following her beyond the limits of the town.

“Where are we going?” you ask her at last, when you seem to be heading back into the wilderness.

Delilah points at an area to your left. “Right there.”

You turn your head to see what she’s indicating. “Oh no. That’s- we’re not staying there, are we?!”

“I warned you that you wouldn’t like it.” Delilah’s already walking into the decaying, nearly-hidden graveyard, motioning for you to follow her. Heaving an exasperated sigh, you go after her, treading carefully around broken gravestones.

“Delilah, there’s no shelter here-“ You stop short, already halfway to despairing, when you catch up with Delilah in front of a small shack just beyond the treeline of the graveyard. She’s fiddling with the doorknob on the singular entrance.

“It’ll serve us for the time.” She manages to get the long-untouched door open and heads inside, with you close behind.

The place is tiny, constructed of stacked river stones like the homes in the town you passed through. The roof is thatched and ancient, and a few dried-up clumps of herbs hang from the low rafters. There’s a squat shelving unit and a small stove, with a single wicker chair positioned by a table that consists of little more than a tree stump in front of the chimney. There are no windows in this cramped dwelling.

“A hunter’s shack,” says Delilah, surveying the place. “It hasn’t been used in years.”

“Maybe due to the fact that it’s located less than twenty feet away from an overgrown graveyard?”

She chuckles. “Someone else’s squeamishness is our fortune, Breanna.” She immediately gets started with moving in, stacking her paintings against the wall and cracking her back after depositing her heavy bag on the ground.

Reluctantly, you start to unroll your mattress on the ground. “We’re going to be awfully cozy in here.”

Delilah smirks. “I’m sure we’ll get accustomed to it.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Witchcraft concerns itself with mystery. Through the gates of mystery we come to knowledge. Knowledge enters us through the body. The highest form of this knowledge is Love.”

                             - _The Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

A week later, Delilah tells you she has something new to teach you.

“A means of protecting ourselves,” she says, leading you to a nearby clearing in the woods. The grass grows tall and dewy here in the cool grey light of the moon, full and heavy overhead. The trees are twisted and dark, and you find yourself looking over your shoulder at the shack, ensuring that it’s still there and that you haven’t yet lost yourself in the woods.

“I’ve been thinking of how we were surprised by those Horizon workers,” she continues. “We can’t risk that happening again, especially if we’re so outnumbered.”

You’ve been worrying about the incident yourself, truth be told. Last night you’d laid awake long into the morning, staring at the door and imagining some cohort of Overseers kicking it in. In discussing the topic with Delilah, you’d brought up the prospect of acquiring some of Anton Sokolov’s new security devices, which eliminate the need for a guard entirely. You’d imagined Blinking into some storehouse and taking what you needed, but Delilah’s reaction to the idea had been overwhelmingly negative. Embarrassed, you hadn’t brought up that plan since.

“What is this, then?” You come to stand in the center of the clearing.

Delilah crouches before you in the moonlight, palms streaked with dirt. Dark soil is caked beneath her fingernails; sweat like dewdrops clings to her brow. She straightens up and wipes her hands against the cloth of her trousers, revealing the grim object at her feet.

“I’m going to show you why we don’t need that bastard Sokolov’s technology. This is how we will protect ourselves.”

You’ve become used to the way she speaks of Anton Sokolov, in the times that he does come up in conversation. Always with the prefix _the bastard_ , or _that bastard_ , as if it were his first name. Though his creations are as incredible as they are terrifying, some instinct tells you that Delilah’s hatred for the man is far greater than any need the two of you could have for protection by his machines. Besides, now that you think about it, you doubt you could spirit away an Arc Pylon the same way the two of you steal so many other essentials.

At Delilah’s feet is a canine skull and mandible. Long in the snout, with great staring eye sockets, it could easily be the remains of an Overseer’s hound. It isn’t hard to determine where she unearthed this, with the looming presence of the graveyard still so close.

“How are we going to use a hound skull to protect ourselves?”

Delilah turns to regard the night sky. “It won’t be just a skull when I’m done with it.”

Above the two of you, the moon glows full and bright, illuminating this small clearing.

“I want to teach you, Breanna. This will be the most difficult spell you’ve learned yet,” she says, turning back to face you, “but I believe in you.”

You carefully eye the grimy skull on the ground. It grins back at you, moonlight glinting off its shiny pate, its cruel mouth full of too many teeth.

“What am I to do with this?” you ask at last, when the skull offers no further revelations.

Delilah begins to circle you, hands clasped behind her narrow back. “Performed correctly, the spell will transform this skull into a complete gravehound, an ancient guardian of witches. It will be loyal to the witch who summons it, hostile to those who threaten her, and invaluable in a fight.”

“I imagine such a useful spell won’t come easily to me,” you respond, after a moment’s silence. Though it would hardly be the first time Delilah has defied the laws of science in front of you, it would certainly be the most flagrant breakage of the boundary between life and death that you’ve witnessed yet.

Delilah chuckles. “Right as always. But let me show you, first.”

A cloud finishes its pass over the silvery moon, and the sky is clear once more. Delilah stretches her Marked hand over the skull and seems to concentrate, her brow furrowed.

The whistling grasses grow silent, the hoots of nightbirds fade. Time slows, congealing and stretching like poured rubber, before converging on the one point of power in the graveyard. You feel the inescapable pull of Delilah’s magic, setting your blood aflame. Power glimmers and sparks all around you- Delilah is casting something immensely potent.

And like a dream, the hound’s skull levitates off the ground, white light surging from the center of its cranium as it wobbles higher, and something is growing, extending out of it. Twisting black-crimson flesh unfurls outward from the skull, knitting itself into complex anatomical patterns, forming tendons and thick muscle fibers in seconds. Legs build themselves from thigh to clawed foot; jutting ribs protrude from the narrow belly. A bone-white vertebral tail extends itself from the fast-forming body.

The completed gravehound shakes itself, sparks of magic flying off it like so many droplets of water, and scratches at the wet ground. Its fleshless white head lifts up towards the moon to let loose a howl that raises the hairs on your arms. Instinctively, you take a step back.

Delilah doesn’t miss it, of course. She’s by your side in an instant, her fingertips light on your forearm.

“Don’t be frightened, my dear. It won’t hurt you,” she breathes into your ear. You turn to see her smiling fondly at her creation, which looks up at her and wags its tail in such a familiar way that you cannot help but give a surprised laugh.

“…how?” is all you can manage after a few shocked moments. You cannot tear your eyes away from the resurrected hound, which now trots contentedly around the clearing, its snout roving across the ground.

“It’s complicated spellwork,” says Delilah, turning back to you. “The core of it is coaxing what’s left of the hound- its remaining essence- to regrow itself from the skull. Just picturing the flesh and muscle won’t be nearly enough.”

With a casual wave of her hand, the body of the gravehound blinks out of existence, as if it were never there. Unsupported, the skull tumbles to the ground, thudding softly into the wet soil. All that remains of the body are vague golden flickers of magic. The forest is silent a few moments longer before Delilah speaks.

“Even with all of my power, there are only two of us- at least for now. We’re vulnerable as we are, chained to this city without the safety of a true home. Overseers will hunt us. Others will steal from us as they already have. We must have a means of defending ourselves.” You nod in agreement.

Delilah steps aside, leaving an open space between you and the skull.

“Now, it’s your turn to try.”

~

You spend the next two hours taking frustratingly vague instruction from Delilah and experiencing very little in the way of success. It would seem that all your painstakingly-acquired knowledge of anatomy and physiology amounts to nothing when it comes to weaving hound bodies out of empty air.

“You’re getting worked up,” says Delilah, as though you haven’t been acutely aware of that fact for the past hour. “Your anger will only get in the way of your focus.” Frustrated, you shake off her light grasp on your shoulder and glare at the hound skull.

Your tolerance for failure has always been low, and magic is no exception to this. You practice and struggle for what comes so easily and naturally to Delilah. Yet without her instruction you would be utterly powerless, and you would rather die than disappoint her. And so, for perhaps the thirtieth time tonight, you stretch out your hand towards the skull, whose grinning mouth now seems to be mocking you, and attempt to catch hold of the invisible strings of Void-imbued consciousness that float around it. Jerkily, the skull lifts from the ground, shuddering into the air where it hovers for a scarce few moments. You think you see tendrils of muscle begin to grow from its base, and your breath catches in your throat.

Then it clatters to the ground again, and a shriek of exasperation escapes you, something taut and strained within you finally snapping.

“Breanna!”

You fall to your knees, fingers knotting in the tall grass that surrounds you, your breath loud and shaky. Another failure. As if any other outcome were possible.

“Breanna, that’s enough.” Have you imagined an edge of disappointment in her voice?

“I can’t focus with you standing over me like this,” you manage, gritting your teeth and refusing to meet her gaze. “Go back to the shack. I’m staying out here until I get it right.”

Surprisingly, Delilah seems to have nothing to say to that. You’d expected her to argue, to protest. But all that meets your ears after a few long moments is a sigh, followed by the sound of her footsteps in the damp earth, leading back towards the ruined shack you call home.

It’s better like this. That’s what you tell yourself. The graveyard is so quiet without her insistent directing. Your fingers are still fisted tight in the rough grass, your shoulders tense even without Delilah’s eyes on you. The pressure of her judgment, imagined or otherwise, had been smothering.

You let yourself breathe. In and out, again and again. Just like when you were a little girl frustrated with your studies, then when you were a young woman, frustrated with the world. All that useless, directionless anger welling up inside you like blood from a fresh wound, but with nowhere to go. It still pulses in your eardrums.

You close your eyes, revisiting that familiar old feeling, wondering if Delilah ever felt the same way. She must have, in her old life, crushed by poverty and belittled by those who knew nothing of what she was capable of. And she showed them, in the end, proved her worth and her value.

Now you’ll show her.

Raising your head, you face the hound skull again, which sits grinning in the mud, spiting you. For no logical reason at all, you bare your teeth back at it. There’s no one else here to see you, anyway. You keep your unblinking gaze on your target, finally letting everything else fall away into nothingness.

Fingers, clenching and unclenching. Your blood rushing with adrenaline and Delilah’s magic. The world, silent and unmoving around you at its epicenter. The skull, still thrumming with something desperate to live again, to walk and track and chase.

You, with the power to bring it back.

It begins without so much as a gesture from you. Obscure organic shapes begin to coalesce at the base of the skull, swirling and flowing outward. Ropes of pulsing matter intertwine and cling to each other, forming the shapes that flesh abandoned in its rotting. The forming of it scarcely needs your direction, simply your immovable, commanding will.

When the dark sockets of its eyes meet yours, you let out a long breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

After gazing at it for a surreal minute, you walk a slow circle around the gravehound. It stands in place, as if allowing you to inspect it. It’s- you can’t believe it. It’s incredible. Just a few months ago you’d barely been able to control a single vine. You’re getting better. Stronger.

You have to show Delilah.

Obediently, the creature follows you back through the forest, towards your shelter for the night. Again and again, you find yourself looking over your shoulder, checking to see if you’d truly imagined this after all. Yet it trots behind you like any living beast, compliant for all its vicious looks.

Delilah rises quickly to her feet when you enter the shack, her lips already forming words of comfort, but she stops short when she sees what’s behind you. Her mouth falls open.

You place a hand on the gravehound’s smooth head and meet her eyes, watching a smile begin to spread across Delilah’s face.

She takes a few steps forward, then throws her arms around you without prelude, and a rush of accomplishment flows through you, heady and warm.

“Well done, Breanna.” She draws back, holding you by the shoulders, and tells you what you’ve been aching to hear for maybe your entire life.

“I’m so proud of you.”

~

You spend another month in the hunter’s shack before you move once again.

The cramped quarters and drafty living have begun to irk you daily. You’ve done your best not to complain, but after years of living in the manor, it’s difficult to adjust. You miss the city, in truth. You miss waking up to the sounds of activity, far-away machinery and the carriages clattering down the cobblestone roads. Living in such close quarters makes you irritable, which is the last thing you want to be around Delilah. She doesn’t seem to mind so much, though. The shack is so small that your mattresses are pressed together on the floor to fit. Her narrow back sometimes touches yours as she sleeps through the day. Lying there, feeling her breathe slow and steady so close to you, you find it hard to drift off.

In the end, it’s necessity that pushes the two of you out of your graveyard shelter. The villagers here aren’t the type to spend much on fine art, and the coin you share is slowly running out. You’ve tried to sell some of your belongings too, to make up for the deficit, but there’s even less interest here in your fine, impractical clothes and jewelry. Eventually, Delilah gives in to your suggestions to move.

“I don’t like it,” she grumbles, packing up her things once again. “Being tied to the city isn’t good for us.”

“But we’re not farmers,” you remind her. “We can’t get by out here without the income your paintings bring in. Besides, we’ll just be on the fringe of the city, won’t we?” You’ve already gathered up all your belongings, eager to get moving.

“More people means more risk of discovery.” She rolls up her paints and brushes in a padded cloth and tucks it away into her bag.

 _Why do you avoid Dunwall?,_ you want to ask. _Who or what is there that you don’t want to go near?_

“You said there would be other women joining us,” you say instead. “If there’s going to be more than two of us, then we’ll need more space sooner or later.”

She sighs. “I suppose you’re right.”

You secure passage back to the city in the back of a horse-drawn wagon. After pressing a few coins into the hand of the quiet, sunburnt driver, you’re motioned to go sit in the back, surrounded by stacks of wheat and corn. The carriage moves jerkily, and you’re nearly thrown out of your seat a few times as the wheels pass over bumps in the dirt road.

The heat rises quickly. Beside you, Delilah attempts to fan the both of you with a piece of paper. Eventually her head droops against your shoulder, drained by the close, heavy air. Her short hair tickles the side of your neck. You sit up ramrod straight, feeling warmer than before.

“Delilah?” You interrupt the silence at last.

“Hmm?” You’ve been on the road for perhaps half an hour; it’s hard to tell.

“Could you tell me about the Outsider?”

She raises her head. “Right here? Aren’t you worried the driver will hear?”

You shake your head. “We’re in an enclosed wagon, and I doubt he’s listening. We’ll talk quietly.”

She hums, contemplating. “I guess I haven’t explained much about him, have I?”

“Not really.” You’ve been burning with curiosity for a while about Delilah’s god, but you’ve had little free time to openly discuss him with Delilah.

“Well, you know what he’s supposed to look like.”

“He takes the form of a young man, they say. With black eyes.”

“Yes,” she says, “that’s about right. The eyes were the only thing that appeared inhuman. All pupil, no white. He appeared to me in a dream to Mark me.”

“When was that?”

“Nearly a year ago, now that I think of it.” She frowns slightly. “The night he came to me…I was at a low point in my life, if I’m being honest. I think he chose that time intentionally, to give me hope when all I saw was darkness.”

“What makes you say that?” You’re intrigued by the idea of a sympathetic god.

“The Abbey says he’s a trickster god, full of temptation and evil. But he’s really just…impartial. An onlooker, if anything. If he’s biased in any way, it seems to be toward those with no power. So maybe that’s why the Abbey really hates him,” she says with a short laugh.

“So he gives power to those who have none?” You attempt to reconstruct your preconceived notions of the Outsider with what Delilah’s telling you.

“In some cases, I think. He said something about finding it fascinating to see what people do with power. I certainly had very little before he came to me. I think it’s less about that and more about who he finds interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“As in, they’ll use his powers in an unusual or unpredictable way. Imagine if someone like the Captain of the Watch was Marked. Most likely, he’d use the power to imprison criminals, or if he was corrupt, to eliminate his enemies. Anyone could guess the outcome of that. But Mark someone like a kitchen maid, or a street child-“

“Or a painter’s apprentice,” you add, and she smiles.

“It becomes harder to predict the results. That’s why the Outsider looks for those kinds of people. And so I was Marked, and I realized I could start a new life with my power, one where I wouldn’t have to rely on anyone else except by my choice. That’s when I started scouting out new places to live, slipping out at night and Blinking across the city. It’s  how I found the building we’re moving to.”

A few hours later, the carriage comes to a halt, and the driver’s face appears at the rear opening of the wagon.

“Don’t know what you want with the Slaughterhouse District, but this is the closest I can get you.”

“Thank you so much,” you tell the driver, gathering up your things as Delilah descends from the wagon. He nods to you and snaps the reins, and you watch the carriage rattle away.

You’d been skeptical about the idea of staying in the Slaughterhouse District at first, at least until Delilah had shown you on a map where you’d actually be living. It’s by the very edge of the city, a fair distance from the odorous, bloodstained charnel-houses, and far enough from the more populated areas that you won’t easily be found.

After navigating a complex maze of bridges and alleyways, the two of you finally make your way to the abandoned apartment Delilah had marked. To your relief, it remains empty, free of squatters or gangs. It’s far larger than the hunting shack and more residential than the Horizon office building. It’s amazing, you muse as you unpack, that in the span of a few months, you’ve already lived in three different places, after all those stagnant years of being trapped in the manor. And to top it off, you’re delighted to find a certain appliance that had been missing from the homes before this one.

“Delilah,” you call, elated, “there’s an actual bath here!”

“Does it work?” she yells back. “I fixed up the plumbing last time I was here.”

Eagerly, you turn the twin handles on either side of the spout. With a sputtering gurgle, water begins to flow forth.

“It works!” you shout. You hear footsteps, and then Delilah’s standing in the doorway, grinning widely.

“No more standing in the rain for us,” you mutter happily, watching the tub fill with somewhat rusty water. “How did you get this working? I thought it would be shut off.”

She shrugs. “It was, but the controls weren’t hard to find.”

You stand up and turn to Delilah. “I like this place better already.”

~

Over the next few days, you practice your magic and explore the area by night with Delilah, plotting out rooftop routes to a variety of locations. You can’t deny it- it feels good to be back in your city. Even better now that Delilah is by your side. During these past months, she’s opened up to you, as you have to her. Her tentative formality from the beginning is gone, replaced by earnest warmth and moments of surprising intensity. You try to make her laugh whenever you can, which isn’t always an easy task, but it’s immensely rewarding all the same. She’s considerate of you like Phyllis, easy to be around like Ella, but so much more beyond that as well.

She’s not in the apartment one morning when you wake, having gotten your sleep schedule back to a more reasonable and less nocturnal state since your move back to the city. You nearly panic before you find a hastily scribbled note on the table where you take your meals with her.

_Breanna-_

_I went into the city early today to sell the paintings. There’s more competition here among the artists, so it’s better to arrive earlier. I should be back this evening with the groceries. Take care and practice what you’ve learned._

_-Delilah_

With Delilah gone for the day, you find yourself lacking things to do. You’ve been low on coin ever since you left the graveyard shelter. It makes you anxious, wanting for resources yet being without a way to obtain them. You’re too jittery even to practice your magic effectively. To calm your nerves, you decide to take stock of your belongings. If there’s anything you can sell, now would be a good time to do so. You eventually make two stacks in the middle of the apartment’s floor.

To sell: your more expensive clothes from your old life, the set of silverware you’d stolen on a whim from your parents soon before your departure, the copper wire you’ve scavenged from the nearby area, the cameo Thurston had given you as an engagement gift (you’ll have to be careful selling that one, if you don’t want him tracking you down), and the knife you took off a body that floated down the river one evening.

To keep: your books, your own dagger, your sturdy shoes, a crowbar, the medicinal herbs you’d found, the scraps of whalebone from your nighttime visit to a slaughterhouse that you’re saving, the gravehound skull, all your rations, useful bottles and jars, your suitcase itself, and the other things that are mostly essential to your life.

You sit back and regard the piles, chewing your lip worriedly. What you can sell should get you through a few more months, but according to Delilah, more women will be joining you soon. It’s possible they’ll be bringing their own money, but if they aren’t, you’ll have to find a way to accommodate them. Delilah’s paintings can only bring in so much coin.

After a few more minutes of consideration, you toss the crowbar and an apple in your bag and sling it over your shoulder, heading for the window. Outside the sky is a flat grey, storm clouds hovering on the eastern horizon. Raising the windowpane, you survey the surrounding buildings. You and Delilah looted the abandoned storefront to your left last week, but the dilapidated brownstone on your right remains unexplored. Quick as a thought, you Blink over to a balcony on the second floor. The door is locked with a padlock, but it shatters under the force of the crowbar, and you step through.

You wait a full minute, crouched and motionless, before determining that no one else is here. Pressing one hand to the wooden floor, you will the building to give up its secrets, but no figures glow gold in your wall-penetrating vision, which only lasts a few seconds before you begin to tire from the magic. Delilah assures you your powers will grow with practice, which you hope is true. For now, you’ll have to make do.

The room you enter first appears to be a modest kitchen in disarray. Cabinet doors hang open, and chairs lie sideways on the floor. You’re not sure if it’s already been looted, or if the previous owners simply left in a hurry. The first thing you check is the cupboard, where you find the dried husks of some indeterminate fruit (useless), several glasses, a few jars of preserved pears (good for travel), and three bottles of cheap wine. After some thought, you take the wine, the glasses, and the jars of pears. Your pack now considerably heavier, you check the rest of the kitchen before investigating the other rooms on this floor, which includes two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small living area. Already, you’re feeling a little better about your chances out here. Keeping busy helps, of course.

You’ve gone over the first three floors with a fine-tooth comb by the time evening falls, taking a break for lunch, and you return to the apartment to find Delilah setting down her satchel, arms full of canvases.

“Breanna,” she gasps when you appear on the ledge outside. “There you are. You surprised me.”

You step inside, ducking your head through the window, and show her your bulging satchel. “I got bored and looted the next building over.”

Delilah props her paintings up against the wall. “Find anything useful?”

“A good bit. How about you?”

A smile spreads across her face. “I sold _two_ today!”

“Really? That’s wonderful! Which ones?”

“The one of Kaldwin’s Bridge and the portrait of that dock worker.” Delilah glows with pride as she turns to you, with good reason- most days she sells nothing.

“I always liked those ones,” you tell her. “Want to celebrate?” You sit down on your mattress and begin to empty your satchel, arranging the day’s finds on the floor in front of you. When your hand finds the neck of one bottle of wine, you take it out and wave it at Delilah. “I found us a treat.”

She chuckles. “You’re in a rare mood.”

“I’m feeling better about our chances out here,” you say with a shrug. “Plus, it’s been ages since I got drunk.” You don’t mention that just having Delilah home with you raises your spirits immeasurably.

“All right, then,” she says, laughing. “Let’s give this cheap shit a try.”

~

A bottle and a half in, you’re realizing you can hold your alcohol much better than Delilah, to your immense enjoyment. The both of you have moved to the roof, where you lie side by side and pass the bottle back and forth. You’d considered bringing the glasses with you, but it’s much more fun to drink straight from the bottle. Less restrained. You’d have never been allowed to do this in your old life, which now seems so very far away.

Delilah’s been uncharacteristically jovial for a good half hour now, and she’s starting to slur her words a bit.

“This is almost starting to taste good,” she tells you, taking another swig. “I can taste the whole, uh, bouquet of it now.”

“The what?” You burst out laughing. Maybe you’re a little farther along than you’d thought.

“You know, all the different flavors wine’s supposed to have! Like a, a hint of hazelnut, or cedar or something.” She does an exaggerated pantomime of waving the bottle’s opening under her nose.

“I think they just make that stuff up,” you giggle. “And then they tell you what you’re supposed to smell, and your brain just thinks it’s smelling those things. Like a placebo effect. A scam.”

“Like in medical tests,” says Delilah, passing the bottle over to you. “Pretending to treat people and…giving them nothing. A false elixir.” An unmistakable shadow passes over her face, and she goes silent.

“Do they really do that? When someone’s life is on the line?”

“Oh yes,” she says quietly, rolling on her side to face you. Her eyes are wide and serious, all traces of her previous mood vanished. “And they say it’s all for the greater good.”

Looking at her now, you have a feeling you know what this is about. Or whom.

“Are you alright, Delilah?” you ask her tentatively, missing the careless, joking air of just minutes ago. She reaches over for the bottle again, which you relinquish to her. After taking another deep swig, she meets your gaze again.

“You must think he’s such a hero. They all do. They worship the ground he walks on. But you have no idea what he was really like.”

“You mean Sokolov,” you venture. Delilah rolls onto her back again, her chin tilted to the stars.

“Sokolov, Sokolov. Anton Sokolov.” She spits the name like poison. “Royal Physician. Head of the Academy. Acclaimed painter. He has it all, doesn’t he?”

After she lapses into silence once more, curiosity compels you to prompt her again.

“You told me you studied under him, for a while at least.”

“Do you know how he found me?” she asks, gaze still fixed on the night sky above.

“You didn’t say.”

“I was working in a brothel,” she says, “the Golden Cat. The fanciest whorehouse in Dunwall. Don’t give me that look,“ she adds. You close your mouth hastily.

“All I did was wash the sheets, clean their clothes, sweep the private rooms, things like that. I’d been teaching myself to paint for years by then. Every night, I’d work by lamplight in my room. I did portraits of the girls there. Not the crude, gratuitous kind they were used to. I brought out their true selves. The madam let the girls keep their paintings in their rooms. And what frequent visitor do you think saw those portraits?”

“ _That’s_ how he discovered you?”

She nods gravely. “He asked the madam if he could meet me. He saw potential in my work. The rest is history.”

A long silence passes between the two of you. You’re aware of the noise your breathing makes, the cold metal of the roof against your back. Delilah’s vulnerability with you now seems a ephemeral thing, liable to disappear at a moment’s notice. But just as you think she’s done talking for the night, she speaks up again.

“I used to admire him. How could I not, at first? The greatest painter in Dunwall, perhaps in all of Gristol, appears and sweeps me away from my miserable occupation. It was like something out of a storybook. All my life I’d never had the power to scorn authority the way he did, to laugh at tradition and mock the privileged. But he had real power, and it was intoxicating to see him wield it.”

Either she’s not as drunk as you’d thought, or alcohol makes her even more eloquent.

“He took me everywhere with him. I visited places I’d always dreamed of seeing; the Grand Palace in Serkonos, the Festival of Churners in Morley, even his hometown in Tyvia. He seemed eager to have me in the beginning, or at least, to have someone to teach. I thought myself special for a time.”

Another long pause. You find yourself holding your breath, so afraid to hear what’s coming.

“But his tutelage came with a price. He started asking me for favors.” Her voice breaks, and something in your chest shatters concurrently with it.

“Delilah, you don’t have to talk about this.”

“No,” she says sharply, “no, I want to.” Her eyes are wet. “Someone apart from me has to know. Otherwise he gets away with it. You understand, right?”

Oh. You do understand, somehow.

“And you won’t hate me, Breanna,” she continues, “I know you won’t call me a liar. You’re better than that. You’re on my side, aren’t you?”

Buoyed by emotion, you reach across the space between your bodies and take her hand. “I’m on your side.”

Delilah squeezes your hand and smiles. You feel so close to her now, closer than you’ve been to any other human being in your life. It’s a physical ache. There’s nothing else out there in the world, no sky and no earth and no Dunwall waiting in the distance, there’s only the two of you linked here, inseparable. All night long your short-term memory has been flashing in and out thanks to the wine, but Delilah’s words, her grip on your hand, are crystal-clear and unforgettable.

“Do you know,” she whispers to you, “the funniest thing of all?”

You shake your head, never breaking her gaze.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” she says. “Did you know that Sokolov’s obsessed with the Outsider?”

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s true. He tries everything to get his attention. Rituals, sacrifices, runes. When the Watch would arrest heretics and witches, all their occult items went straight to Sokolov, when he requested them. He claimed they were for his experiments, to create inventions that would protect people from the Void’s temptations. But he kept them all for himself. He had a sizeable collection. Less so now,” she says with a chuckle.

“What do you mean?” You can’t help but return her smile. She leans in closer.

“I stole his artifacts. Stole as many as I could fit into my bags when I left. I couldn’t get them all, of course, he was always moving them to different hiding places. But I’ve got a good portion of them. Bone charms and runes and lanterns. They’ll be better off in my hands.”

You laugh in surprised wonder, speechless at Delilah’s guile. “That’s as good a revenge as any.”

“Yeah, he probably lost his mind when he figured it out,” she says. Delilah turns your linked hands over, so the brand on the back of her left hand faces upward.

“What’s best of all,” she says softly, “is that I’ve got what he’ll never have. He tried so hard to be interesting, to capture the Outsider’s attention with all his trinkets. But I did what he couldn’t. I’m Marked, and he’ll never be. Nothing can change that.”

You lie there with her for a while longer, eyelids drooping, watching the night sky. Hand in hand, filled with a warmth that can’t be entirely attributed to all the wine.

You’re nearly asleep, or passed out, or somewhere in between when Delilah’s voice stirs you again.

“Do you miss home, Breanna?”

“Hm?” Your foggy mind hasn’t totally processed her words.

“I mean, do you ever want to go back? You’d never have to worry about your next meal, and you’d live in a warm house with a clean room of your own. You’d have hot baths and nice clothes and never have to walk miles on your own. Maybe you could even get them to forgive you.”

The way she says that last part makes you think that maybe she’s not just talking about you.

“No, I don’t,” you answer honestly. “I rarely even think about that life anymore. That wasn’t who I am.”

Delilah hums a little note of satisfaction.

“And what about you?” you ask her.

“Me?”

“Do you ever wish you could go home?”

She laughs, turning her pale face up to the cold sky above.

“Where is home?”


	7. Chapter 7

“The practice of witchcraft is one of revolution and of the power of woman.”

                             - _The Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

The next morning sees you shuttering all the windows and hiding from the light, head pounding with the aftereffects of the wine. The pain lessens after a few glasses of water, and you tiptoe upstairs to grow some more briars out of the target X you’ve marked on the wall while Delilah sleeps downstairs. Pieces of the previous night come back to you as you work, though you try not to let yourself be distracted by them. You remember laughing a great deal, even at things you wouldn’t normally consider very funny. You remember Delilah’s warm hand in yours, her voice against the backdrop of the stars above, which blurred and blended together after enough wine. You remember helping her back down the stairs to the room where the two of you sleep, her form slumped against yours, her voice slurring words you can’t recall now. You’d laid her down on her mattress, where she hadn’t protested further before passing out.

After a few hours of dawdling upstairs, you finally head back down to find Delilah awake and painting. She greets you but doesn’t say much more, her gaze fixed on the work in progress. Her posture is a little stiff. As you prepare your lunch in silence, it hits you: she must be embarrassed. Last night had not been the first occasion in which you’d drunkenly said some unadvisable things, but maybe it was for Delilah. She doesn’t seem the type to indulge very frequently. It’s possible that she’s angry with herself for revealing so much.

The day passes with very little conversation between the two of you. It’s agonizing, being held at arm’s length after the closeness you’d felt with her the previous night. After several tense and anxious hours, you finally steel yourself to confront Delilah, if only to get it over with.

“Delilah?” You manage to stop her as she heads upstairs. She freezes, then slowly turns to you.

“Delilah, please tell me what’s going on. Have I said something to offend you?”

“I- Breanna, I’m sorry.” She passes a hand over her face, scrunching her eyes closed as though in pain. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve been meaning to apologize to you for last night. I shouldn’t have put all that on you, it was irresponsible and immature-“

“No, it wasn’t. Not in the slightest.” You won’t let her speak that way about herself, not after what you’ve heard. “I meant what I said. I’m on your side. You’ve said nothing that would cause me to judge you.”

She shakes her head, frustrated. “I knew you’d say that. You’re too kind to me, Breanna. But I should have controlled myself better.”

“Why? So you could hide everything you’ve been through from me?” You approach her carefully. “I told you all about my old life within weeks of meeting you. If there’s anyone guilty of oversharing, it’s me. So if you’re going to be angry with yourself, be angry with me too.”

Her shoulders slump. “I could never be angry with you, Breanna.”

You step to her side. “Then stop criticizing yourself and eat dinner with me.”

It’s as if a string is cut when you carefully place your hand against the small of Delilah’s back. All of the tension leaves her body, and she lets out a long sigh, closing her eyes for the moment.

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

“No more of that,” you chide her lightly. “Let’s try that strip of pork you bought, hmm?” All the anxiety you’d felt earlier has lifted from you; your own emotions seem distant and secondary to Delilah’s. You manage to cook up the pork without any great disaster, and over dinner, Delilah tells you some good news.

“I’ve been in contact with a few other women who might join us soon,” she tells you, clear enthusiasm in her voice. “I’m going to try reaching out to them tonight to see if any of them have made a decision yet.”

“That’s great,” you tell her. “How many are you in contact with right now?” you ask, unable to hold back your curiosity. In your mind you picture a faceless assembly of women from across the Isles, each navigating her own perilous way to salvation.

“Four,” says Delilah. “One of them is closer to making a decision than the others. You’ll understand why if she comes to join us.”

That night, you indulge yourself and picture this building inhabited by a larger coven. This room would be crowded with mattresses, the shelves stocked with enough food to feed a family, which is of course what you would be. At night you’d explore the cityscape of Dunwall with a whole gaggle of women, fearless in each other’s company. You envision a group of witches Blinking back and forth across the floorboards just as you had, laughing and celebrating each success.

Of course, you’d have to share Delilah. She could not be seen playing favorites; all the new witches would receive the same kind of attention that you had. Something in your jealous heart recoils violently at the thought. You want to believe you are special, to Delilah if no one else. She, after all, is like no one else you’ve ever met. How could you ever grow so close to another person?

Oh, you wish you could be good. You wish you could just leave Delilah be, so as not to ruin this all-important bond between the two of you. But already you’re realizing that something will have to be done about it. Either you distance yourself away from her, or she’ll do it to you, sooner or later.

You wake early to the first beams of sunlight breaking through the boarded windows, illuminating the shape of Delilah as she moves around the room, stuffing various belongings into her satchel.

“Oh good, you’re up,” she says when she catches sight of you rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. “Get your things together, we’re heading out.”

“Wh- what?” you manage through a yawn.

“The woman I told you about last night has just decided to join us from Potterstead. We’ll have to meet her partway.”

“Why can’t we let her come to us?” Admittedly your own journey had been shorter, but you’d made your own way to Delilah. It seems unnecessarily risky, even to your still-waking senses, to leave the apartment. It may not be uninhabited when you return.

“The most direct way to here from Potterstead, the one she’s almost certainly going to try, is along the highway. She won’t survive the journey alone. But the two of us can handle the open road, and once she’s with us, we can all head back to Dunwall together. It’ll be safer that way.”

“And you can lead her to us?”

Delilah’s stuffing apples into a pocket of her bag now. “Of course I can. Just like I did with you. I’ll be guiding her through dreams.”

Outside the city is stirring, the first noises of industry reaching your ears. Slaughterhouse Row is waking, the river barges starting their morning journey up and down the Wrenhaven. Beyond that are the long and treacherous roads leading out of the city, dusty and wheel-dented. You had not braved these roads yourself, but you recall tales of highwaymen and even slavers haunting these routes, looking for runaways and lone travelers. Those stories still send a shiver down your spine.

With a sigh, you join Delilah in packing up all your earthly possessions, of which there are not terribly many. Across the room, Delilah picks up the gravehound skull, gazing thoughtfully at it for a few moments before bundling it up in a grey rag and carefully depositing it in your bag.

“Won’t do to have her breaking on us,” she says, and you smile, because of course the gravehound is a female by Delilah’s determining.

You wrap up the knives you use for food, your extra pair of boots, your hairbrush and books. Your rations of salted dried fish are positioned atop of what remains of your family’s money. Everything you own goes into the pack that you sling across your back. As Delilah finishes assembling her knapsack, packing away her small unfinished paintings, you trail around the room, half-looking for forgotten items but mostly just committing to memory this place that has housed you faithfully for months, just in case you never return. Your fingers trail across the peeling paint on the walls, the splintered windowsills. You breathe in the city’s air, listening as it comes to life below you.

The two of you leave through the building’s back entrance, into the winding alleyways behind it. You’re close enough to the edge of the city that the buildings begin to space themselves out after less than half an hour of walking. You don’t encounter many others, and you keep your head down when you do. You could be any two women leaving the city, maybe looking for work somewhere else. You cross one of the Wrenhaven’s tributaries before noon, at which point you can’t help but turn around to watch the city growing smaller on the horizon.

“You seem confident that we won’t run into trouble,” you say to Delilah, when the silence in place of Dunwall’s usual din becomes too oppressive.

“And you’re not?” is her reply.

“We’re still two women on the road. We’ll be outnumbered by most groups.” Being outnumbered by men, overpowered by them: this is the great fear that hovers in your mind, the fear known by every woman to ever walk this earth.

“Highwaymen are opportunists,” says Delilah, after a short pause. Her tone is more reassuring now, as if she can read the worry in your mind. “If we show them we’re going to put up a fight, most of them will just retreat then and there. And we’re far from powerless. We have our spells and our gravehound.” She looks over at you. “I’ve been trying out some new ones that should help us, even if we’re surrounded.”

You turn your gaze back to the highway.

Her hand comes to rest on your shoulder. “You should know that I would never put you in harm’s way, Breanna.”

You nod slowly. It frightens you at times, how much trust you’ve put in Delilah. But her words soothe you like nothing else, and she’s never misled you in all the time you’ve known her.

“We should still sleep in shifts,” you suggest, a few minutes later.

“Good idea.”

Dunwall disappears behind you, and the wide road opens ahead.

~

The remainder of the day passes without event. You stop in the late noon sun to take shelter under a tree, passing scraps of dried meat and fruit back and forth, before continuing down the road. Your feet begin to hurt after only a few hours, but you hold your tongue and don’t mention it to Delilah. Surely your soft, uncalloused feet are a sign of your privileged upbringing, and there’s no need to remind her of that.

The landscape is new to you. Waving yellow grasses extend for miles; far to the north you can just make out the silhouettes of towering mountains. The road cuts a winding grey slice through the vast land. It almost begins to weigh on your nerves, all this open space after years of claustrophobic city living. Next to you, Delilah has turned her face up to the endless sky above you, her eyelids fluttering closed.

As the evening approaches, you come upon a small family of two parents and four children. Even the youngest, a child of no more than six years, has a wicker pack strapped to his back. The father eyes you suspiciously and beckons one straying child closer to him, murmuring something to his wife. You adjust the straps of your own pack and pick up the pace to pass them, wondering (not for the first time) if they can tell something is different about the two of you just by looking. The idea is not without a vengeful sort of appeal.

After sunset, both of you become more cautious. You stay close to the shaded side of the road, where other travelers can’t see you coming from a distance. Delilah’s head swivels from left to right every few minutes, checking the shadows around you and listening for footsteps. The moonlight paints her in shades of grey. You murmur to her for a while, discussing the route ahead, before your nerves grow too frayed for conversation.

Finally, Delilah stops walking and heads off the road. You follow her over a small hill covered in scraggly bushes whose lee-side is shielded from the road.

“We’ll make camp here,” she says, crouching to unpack her bag. “I’ll take the first shift.”

You all but collapse to the ground, your weary feet crying out for rest. Delilah settles cross-legged in the dirt beside you, her gaze distant. You tug your blanket out of your pack and throw it over yourself, trying to get comfortable as best you can in the relative wilderness of this place. Sleep doesn’t come as quickly as it should, exhausted as you are, so you watch Delilah through half-lidded eyes as her lips form silent words, her fingers twitching in the grass to her sides. Casting out her beacon, laying her trail for the unnamed woman joining you, still miles and miles away. Delilah’s siren song must be humming in her mind even now, occupying her dreams.

Early in the morning, Delilah gently wakes you from a deep sleep, and you blearily take her place, gazing out into the distance and thinking very few thoughts until you can see the first orange rays of the sun peaking over the horizon. You watch the sunrise here, the farthest from home you’ve ever been. When the spectacle is over, you give Delilah’s shoulder a gentle shake, and she stirs and mumbles a complaint, achingly human despite everything.

You set back out on the road, feet slowly blistering, packs heavy against your backs. Delilah tosses you an apple by way of breakfast, and you settle into a comfortable pace beside her. As the road trails further inland, you pass clusters of small homes that eventually grow large enough to call villages. Their trails of chimney smoke are visible far before the houses themselves are. You realize you’ve been passing through farmland for the past hour or so when a cart stacked high with wheat passes by you, pulled by a team of blood oxen, which you’ve only ever seen in their cooked-meat form. Delilah catches you staring at the muscled, soft-eyed beasts and grins.

You stop to eat in one of these villages, surrounded by thatched-roof homes and trotting animals. Even on the outskirts of the settlement you feel instantly safer than out on the road, without the comfort of civilization. A few people stare at the two of you- women traveling without the protection of men must be rare- but no one approaches. Here there is no whale oil, no walls of light, no railcars or blinking lights. You try and fail to imagine growing up in a town like this one.

“We’re getting close,” says Delilah a few hours later, back on the highway. “I can sense her making her way to us. She’s safe, I think.”

“How can you tell?” You fall in next to Delilah, watching the sun sink ever closer to the horizon.

“The same power I’ve shared with you- the arcane bond- it connects me to her, now that she’s knowingly seeking me out. Before, I could only see her in her dreams, but now I’m getting snatches of what she’s seeing during the day. She snuck past a checkpoint earlier, from what I saw. Very daring.”

You wonder how much of your journey Delilah had seen. You’d had a brief flash of contact with her, when you’d drifted off in the belly of the ship, so she must have known you made it that far.

“She must be very motivated to join us.” Just like you were.

“Oh, she is,” says Delilah. “This is her means of escape from the life she lived. But that’s her story to tell. I’m sure she’ll share it with us once we meet her.” A few minutes pass in silence. Dust rises from the highway up ahead, where a cart stutters its way down the road.

Soon, Delilah directs you to a path leading off from the highway. The two of you traverse a weaving network of smaller lanes until you’re scarcely on any sort of road at all. Whispering grass grows higher around you, first to your knees, then your hips, catching at your clothing as you move through it. In this sea of waving greenery Delilah finally stops, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder. It’s long past dusk now, and the moon hangs high and swollen in the sky above. A cold wind howls to the north.

“Here she comes,” says Delilah.

And as she speaks you catch sight of a figure, far across the field, moving quickly and erratically towards you. When she sees you she lets out a great whooping cry of joy. The woman tears her way through the tall grass, leaping and waving her arms. As she nears you, you can hear her heaving sobs, her shaking voice.

Delilah opens her arms, her expression beatific, and the woman falls against her, weeping and babbling. Delilah sinks to her knees, cradling her, murmuring what must be her name.

“Tabitha, we’re here. You’re safe, you’re with us, we’re going home…”

The woman introduces herself to you later, but Delilah has already known her name for weeks.

~

You crouch by the two of them, waiting for Tabitha to gather herself. Her face and hands are streaked with dirt, but not enough to hide the cuts and bruises that cover her skin. Her left eye is puffy and purpling; leaves have caught in her wild blond hair. She’s speaking quickly, her hands fluttering in the space between herself and Delilah.

She’d fled Potterstead a week ago after making the near-fatal mistake of confronting her husband about a matter of business. She’d been a seamstress with her own storefront, sewing sturdy tailored clothing for the common people of the town. Her parents had arranged a marriage three years ago to a man of comparable social standing, who’d seemed at the time a gentleman. She would later learn of what a brute he became while drunk when the simmering jealousy he felt over her successful business boiled over at last, leaving her with the bruises and broken bones to remember it by. She’d first heard Delilah’s whispers two months ago, offering her a way out. Wisely, she’d taken it.

Eventually her explanations cease, and she turns to you.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, hiccupping with tears and laughter. “I haven’t even introduced myself to you. I’m Tabitha. And you, you were in the dreams too. Delilah said to expect you. You were the first to find her, weren’t you?”

You nod and stick out your hand, which she shakes gingerly. “I’m Breanna. We’re so glad you made it.” It’s true- despite having just met this woman, you already feel a deep if abstract sense of relief that she managed to escape. Your own family situation seems to pale in comparison.

“It’s very late,” says Delilah at last, casting an eye towards the horizon. “You must be tired. We’ll find shelter until morning.”

Tabitha doesn’t stray more than five feet from the both of you as you leave the outskirts of the field, heading back towards the path. The clouds have grown dense and weighty in the sky, threatening rain. The nearest town was half a day’s journey back; you’ll be sleeping in the brush again.

Delilah looks up at the sky just before a thunderclap booms, making Tabitha jump in surprise. She mutters a curse, then crouches to the ground, slinging off her knapsack.

“This will have to do,” Delilah says, then motions for the two of you to join her. Confusedly, Tabitha seats herself on the grass, and you follow, the first drops of rain already spattering against your shoulders. Delilah smiles at the both of you, mischievous and open.

“Your first taste of magic, Tabitha,” she says, placing the palms of her hands against the earth. And from between her fingers thick vines begin to break out from the ground, unfurling and thickening by the second. They arch over you, intricate and trellis-like, rustling and creaking as they weave a shallow dome over your heads.

Tabitha’s hands fly to her mouth as she watches, entranced. The vines are woven tightly enough that the rainwater can’t seep through. The dome arches over all three of you, leaving just enough space for you to lie down without being pressed against either of the other women. You settle down, resting your head on your pack and drawing up your knees. The steadying pattern of the rain outside your organic shelter drones on and on in your ears, becoming white noise.

“Get some sleep,” you hear Delilah whisper to Tabitha. “We’ll explain everything to you in the morning.” You listen to her breathing as it slows and evens out before closing your own eyes. It’s fascinating, to see your own experience from the other side now, as a coven sister rather than a new recruit.

Scant hours later, you wake to a creaking noise, which turns out to be the summoned vines retreating back into the earth at Delilah’s bidding. Tabitha and Delilah are already assembling their things, preparing for the journey back. You join them and stretch your cramped limbs on the road, heading back towards Dunwall.

You step to Delilah’s side. “Where will we take her? Is it safe to go back to the apartment?”

“We’ll find out,” she says. “If it’s occupied, there’s somewhere else I can take us. We’ll eventually have to move to a new location once we gain more members. Every time the coven grows, we’ll need more space.”

“Will we move closer to the heart of Dunwall again? I thought you said we should avoid the city.”

“We’d be wise to avoid it when our numbers are still so small. Eventually, we’ll have to make space for ourselves in the city.”

You frown. “I just don’t understand why we can’t just stay on the edges of the city.”

“Resources. Food, money, clothing, territory. I can’t sell my paintings out in the middle of nowhere.” Her tone is a little sharper.

“Territory? We’re not a gang, Delilah.”

“No, but we are a coven. We need a safe place to house women like her,” she says, lowering her voice and indicating Tabitha with a nod of her head. “We’ll eventually have to set up an area that won’t be crawling with Overseers and gang scum. It’s the only way we can live in peace.”

You don’t argue further with her, but you’re not so naïve as to think that trying to gain territory in Dunwall will be a peaceful process. Even the well-established gangs routinely conflict over contested land. Hopefully you won’t have to deal with that sort of thing for a while. You leave Delilah’s side and fall back to join Tabitha. She looks tired and fights back a yawn before turning to meet your gaze.

“How are you feeling?”

She shifts the pack on her shoulders. “Better now, thanks.” The bruises on her face stand out sharply in the morning light. You feel a flash of anger toward anyone who would do this to her.

“We’re bringing you back to the apartment where we’ve been staying. We can get more food for you there, and Delilah will begin training you as a new coven member.”

“Are there others there?”

You shake your head. “You’re the second to arrive.”

“Oh.” A flash of disappointment crosses her face.

“Delilah says she’s in communication with three other women right now. They’ll likely be joining us soon,” you quickly add.

“And we’ll be safe together, as a coven?”

You take in her tattered clothes, her black eye, her slight limp.

“Yes. Delilah will protect us all. She’s very powerful, and she’s taught me how to protect myself as well. You’ll share her magic too, soon enough.”

Tabitha smiles at you, slow and honest. “Do you think I could ask her a few questions now?”

You tip your chin in Delilah’s direction. “I think she’s been waiting to talk with you.”

You watch her go to Delilah with a slight spring in her step and remember how you’d felt all those months ago, to be rescued so suddenly from your life and dropped into a new one. It will likely take Tabitha some time to adjust, just as you had. It’ll be nice, you think, to have someone else to talk to.

~

Tabitha is a quick learner, you find. Nearly as quick as you had been.

This time, both you and Delilah act as her teachers. Delilah demonstrates the spell for her, and you explain in words and gestures how best to try it. This setup seems to be the most effective; for all her clear mastery of witchcraft, Delilah sometimes has a difficult time putting words to actions. Her bond to the Void is so strong, so natural, that she doesn’t always understand how magic doesn’t instantly come to you and Tabitha.

This allows for a division of labor: after a certain number of demonstrations, Tabitha will try the spell herself, and you stay with her to coach her while Delilah returns to her painting. In this way, she’s able to turn out more pieces each week and, thus, more income.

You can’t resent her for this. You really can’t. You enjoy teaching, after all, and it’s incredibly fulfilling to see Tabitha becoming more competent and self-assured each day. It’s just that you’re seeing less of Delilah than you’ve been used to. And so, when you’re confident that Tabitha has gotten the hang of a certain spell, you’ll occasionally leave her to it and slip upstairs to watch Delilah paint.

She doesn’t seem to mind, so long as you don’t disturb her too much. You sit with her for at least an hour each day, interspersing that time with bits of conversation. Watching her work is its own reward. You switch off between watching the forming image and staring at Delilah herself: her long, elegant fingers, her clear eyes, the way her full mouth purses when she steps back to assess her work every now and then.

What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Today, she speaks to you as you head up the stairs.

“How’s she doing with her Void Gaze?” You’ve helped Delilah come up with names for each of the spells and abilities you’ve learned, just for clarity’s sake.

“Very well.” You peer over Delilah’s shoulder at her painting, which depicts waves crashing wildly against high, rocky cliffs. “She’s able to make out the outlines of objects in the next room over now by looking through the wall.”

“Excellent.” Her brush swirls through a blue-green mix of paint on her palette. “And her Blink?”

“Definitely up to par.” You step away to give her some space. “Are you planning on going into town soon?”

She nods, gaze fixed upon her work. “I’ll leave early tomorrow to sell in the square. If the pieces I made this week sell, we’ll be further ahead with our coin than we’ve been since you first joined me.”

You sigh with relief. “Glad to hear it. Scavenging’s fun, but I’d rather not rely on it. We risk getting caught each time we go through a new building.”

She chuckles. “You like scavenging?”

“Well, it’s exciting. It gets me out of the apartment for a bit.”

Delilah ceases her painting and turns to you. “You may get to do some traveling soon, if things work out.”

You parse her words for meaning. “There’s another woman joining us?”

“Hopefully. I’ll let you know when she makes a decision.”

The mystery woman makes her choice a mere three days later. Delilah wakes you early in the morning to tell you. You can’t even be upset at being shaken awake when you see the excitement on her face.

It’s decided that you and Delilah will go to meet the woman, and Tabitha will stay to guard the apartment.

“Is that alright with you, Tabitha?” Delilah asks.

“Certainly,” says Tabitha, with a brisk nod of her head. “You can count on me. I may not be very useful on the road, but between my spells and the gravehound at our door, I should be able to hold down the fort for a few days.”

You lay a hand on her shoulder, and she beams up at you. “Thank you, Tabitha. It’s brave of you to stay behind on your own.”

“Nonsense! You two are the brave ones, heading out to travel again. All I have to do is stay out of sight for a few days. I’d be embarrassed if I couldn’t handle that.”

After ensuring that Tabitha has enough food and coin to last at least a week, you depart with Delilah, heading down the road out of Dunwall for the second time now. This time, your destination is a beach near the southern tip of Gristol. The woman, Delilah informs you, is coming north from a minor town outside Bastilian in Serkonos.

“She’s exchanging her labor as a deck hand on the boat she’s taking for safe passage here,” Delilah tells you on the way there.

“She’s a sailor?” You’re curious about this woman already.

“A dock worker, actually, but she knows her way around ships.”

The journey is longer than the one you’d undertaken to find Tabitha. The scenery is thankfully different, so you don’t tire of taking it in alongside Delilah. The trees shrink in height the further south you go, and the landscape turns to gently rolling green hills. You take bridges over a number of small tributaries, clear-running this far from the pollution of the city.

It’s only this far from the city that you begin to miss the creature comforts of the apartment. After making camp one night, you do your best to untangle and re-braid your hair, which has been whipped about by the wind.

“Ugh, it looks like such a rat’s nest,” you complain, angrily tugging your brush through the knotted ends.

Delilah sits up from where she’d been reclining against a smooth boulder. “Let me help,” she says, moving to sit cross-legged behind you. Bemused, you pass her the brush and let her attempt the task.

She works slowly, careful not to pull on your hair too much.

“I should just cut it all off and get a style like yours,” you tell her, as she works from the ends of your hair upward. “Eliminate the problem at the root, right?”

Delilah makes a noise of dissent. “But your hair is so lovely at this length. I’d hate to see it disappear.”

You lower your eyes to hide your smile. “There’s nothing really special about it.”

“On the contrary,” says Delilah. You can feel her slender fingers working through the strands of your hair. Her body exudes warmth this close to you. “It’s a beautiful color, and quite soft. You should keep it like this.”

“I guess I’ll find a way of keeping it under control,” you reply, doing your best not to appear flustered.

You take the first shift that night. Delilah curls up to sleep next to you, resting her head against your thigh. You stiffen.

“Do you need me to move?” you ask her. She shakes her head, eyes still closed.

“No. This is fine.”

The next morning, you wake to Delilah looming over you, shaking you and whispering your name.

“We have to move,” she breathes, face stricken, “we have to get to her quickly. A squad of soldiers is going to search her ship for anyone who isn’t on the roster.”

You hasten to clear up the camp and get moving as Delilah explains. Apparently there’s been a problem with undocumented immigrants from Serkonos using this particular strait as a means of reaching Gristol. This woman, Kai, has no papers with her and will be sent back if caught.

With a visibly anxious Delilah by your side, you reach the beach by late afternoon. There’s no boat docked here and no signs of life. Delilah paces across the misty beach, searching with her Void Gaze. As she looks for the missing woman, you take in the scenery for a moment.

The beach isn’t what you’d expected. It’s rocky and bordered by cliffs; you’d taken a steep path down one of them in order to reach the small area where boats dock. From here, you gaze out at the thrashing cold sea, vast beyond all reckoning, tangent to every continent. Inescapable. The same waters that lick at your feet have touched the shores of Pandyssia far from here. Borders are meaningless to the ocean. Citizenships and papers have no consequence in the deep.

Finally, Delilah motions you over, breaking you out of your reverie. She holds a finger to her lips just as you open your mouth to speak.

“There’s two figures in that cave there, at the foot of the cliff,” she whispers, indicating their position with a pointed finger. “One is dead and the other is alive.”

You suck in a deep breath.

“We’ll approach carefully,” Delilah continues. “If it looks like the living figure is anyone but our mark, we’ll Blink back up the cliff before they can notice us.”

“And if it’s a soldier?” Unspoken: _and if the dead figure is our woman?_

“I’ll take care of them,” is Delilah’s ominous reply.

Cautiously, you advance on the cave with her, listening hard for any sudden sound. When you’re about fifteen feet away, the expression on Delilah’s face changes suddenly. She turns to you and mouths _it’s okay_ , before straightening up and jogging toward the cave. Automatically, you follow her.

The scene that meets your eyes stops you short.

The body on the ground belongs to an imperial soldier; that much is clear by his blood-spattered uniform. His dented helmet has rolled into a corner of the small cave. Crouched over his body, one hand in an ammo pouch, is a lithe woman whose dark hair falls untidily around her face. Eyes narrowed and calculating, she glances between you and Delilah.

“Kai,” says Delilah, “it’s me. The one you’ve been speaking to.”

Slowly, Kai straightens up. It’s then that you notice she’s spattered with blood too, from her chest to her knees. She wipes a distracting smear of blood from her chin, and it becomes clear that none of it is hers.

A feral grin begins to spread across her angular face.

“Took you long enough,” says Kai. She throws back her head and cackles.


	8. Chapter 8

“There is one Witchcraft under many names. There is one Grand Sabbat on one mountain. There are many ways to fly. There is no witness present at the Sabbat.”

                             - _The Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

A month after Kai arrives, you travel halfway to Whitecliff with Delilah to retrieve a talkative, friendly woman named Heather. After her comes Naria, all the way from Cullero. One by one, you bring them back to the apartment on the edge of the Slaughterhouse District. Each time, you travel alone with Delilah, savoring the time spent together. It’s not that you resent the presence of more women in the coven; that was inevitable. But these days, it’s difficult to get a moment alone with her. You find yourself missing the old days, where it was just the two of you.

It isn’t easy, at first, to adjust to so many new faces. Each woman has her own difficulties with a new life, it seems. Kai is opinionated and irreverent, while Heather lacks regard for the boundaries of her new coven-sisters. Naria doesn’t seem very used to talking to anyone at all, and it takes weeks for her to begin conversing normally with the rest.

Yet, without fail, they all obey Delilah. They respect her, even to the point of adulation. She’s constantly active; between teaching the new recruits and painting, you don’t know when or if she even sleeps. The other women are in awe of her. And when it becomes clear that you are, for all intents and purposes, her second-in-command, they begin to extend that respect to you.

For your part, you do your best to resolve their interpersonal squabbles without directly intervening. Your main role is as their teacher, a role you take up with enthusiasm. Tabitha helps where she can, aiding the newest ones with the spells she’s since mastered. Soon enough, their arguments cease, and the women begin to work together with a renewed vigor. Of course, things aren’t perfect- Heather and Naria bicker from time to time, and Tabitha is still somewhat intimidated by Kai- but after several months, your little group starts to feel like a little family.

After the addition of Naria, however, the apartment becomes rather cramped. When you and Tabitha eventually propose another move to Delilah, she doesn’t take long to agree.

Nearly a year after you joined Delilah, the coven packs up and heads for a new base: a roomy building in the Flooded District.

“The accommodations won’t exactly be luxurious,” Delilah tells the group, “but what’s far more important is finding space for the growing coven in a place where we won’t be bothered by the Watch.”

After nightfall, as you make your rooftop way to the Flooded District far across the city, you speak to Delilah in a lowered voice.

“I’m sure you know the district isn’t exactly abandoned like they say.”

“No,” says Delilah, “there will be others living there. Mostly the destitute and perhaps a few cultists. The gangs stay farther north.”

“We don’t know that. We won’t know until we get there.”

“Breanna.” She turns to face you. “Please just trust me. I’m not leading us into an ambush.”

“Look, I know, I just- ” You break off with a sigh. “I’m worried about trying to establish territory is all.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to put our new recruits through that just yet.”

She leaves your side to converse with Heather. You find yourself wishing that the new sisters would hurry up and learn their spellwork already, so Delilah wouldn’t have to spend half the day working one-on-one with them. _So that she could spend more time with you,_ says the insolent voice in your head.

A fallen billboard advertising Davidson’s Wax marks your entry into the Flooded District. Travel across rooftops becomes mandatory now, as the streets below you disappear under the stagnant water. It’s utterly silent here, save for the occasional dripping sounds of water moving. Your coven-sisters, not native to Dunwall, are wide-eyed at the sight of the neighborhood.

“What happened here?” Heather asks you.

“The dams that held the river back broke,” you answer. “People evacuated practically overnight.”

“And now no one lives here?”

You pause on a slate rooftop. Somewhere in the square below you, a light in a window winks out.

“Now we live here,” is the diplomatic answer you give. Warily, you continue, keeping an eye out for any movement.

At last, Delilah leads you to a tall stone building shaped like a wedge, connected to its neighbors by makeshift wood-and-sheet-metal bridges.

“This is it.”

‘It’ turns out to be a four-story ex-manor with notably few holes in the roof and between floors. The place has long since been stripped for valuables, but most of the furniture, too heavy to transport, remains. There’s a dining room, marked by a long wooden table and a number of chairs, and several bedrooms, which the women quickly claim. Tabitha shares a room with Heather, and Naria and Kai set down their things in another bedroom. That leaves you and Delilah.

“Why don’t we take this one here, Breanna?” says Delilah, already moving to claim her place. The bed itself is scarcely more than a mattress propped up on a once-beautiful wooden scaffold.

“Sure.” You follow her in. The possessive creature that lives in your head is triumphant at securing this one little intimacy. Of course, rooming with you is just what Delilah’s used to, but it would’ve hurt to see her go off with another coven member.

That night, the coven feasts on hagfish that Kai somehow managed to retrieve from the waters below. You sit together at the long table in the dining room, passing a bottle of cheap wine around and laughing at Kai’s reenactment of her fishing adventure. Looking down the table, at all their faces, you feel completely at peace for once. This is a family. Sisters look out for each other. Stay together, and nothing can harm you.

~

It takes some adjustment, but soon you’re back to the same kind of life you’d had in the apartment. Delilah leaves early in the morning a few times a week to sell her paintings, and the rest of you go to the market in groups of at least two to buy supplies and food. Usually you don’t join them; each time you go out into Dunwall, you wear a hat and cover your face as best you can without drawing suspicion. The rest of the women aren’t from this city and don’t have to worry about being recognized. So far, on the occasions where you’ve accompanied them, no one has given any indication of knowing you. Yet.

One evening, soon after Delilah’s returned, Heather rushes into the dining room, eyes wide and face white.

“At my window,” she’s saying, “eyes at my window, someone was looking in-“

“Calm down, love,” says Tabitha, rising to go to her. “Which window?”

“The one to the bedroom,” Heather replies, voice high with panic. “There’s that scaffolding outside, someone could stand on it.”

Naria is already on her way there, jaw set with determination and eyes blazing.

“Naria, wait!” Kai calls. You rest your face in the palm of your hand.

“He’d best hope she doesn’t catch him,” Kai mutters, sinking back into her chair.

“Really, though,” Tabitha says to Delilah, who’s been silently watching the scene unfold, “We should get something to cover those windows with, at least at night. Thick fabric or something.”

“We’ve already boarded up all the ones without glass,” says Delilah, sounding tired. “Intruders aren’t getting in.”

“Yes, but I don’t like the idea of being watched. Is there anything here we could use?”

Delilah shrugs. “The curtains were taken a long time ago.”

“Could we cover them with vines?” Kai suggests.

Tabitha shakes her head. “People would know those hadn’t grown naturally, especially if they popped up overnight. We’d be announcing our magic to whoever’s around.”

An idea springs to your mind. “I can go get some tarps. We could cut those up and pin them over the windows.”

“Now there’s a good idea,” says Tabitha. “Where could you get those?”

“There’s a woodworking supplier not far from here,” you tell her, already rising from your seat and throwing on your jacket. “They cover their stock outside with these thick tarps. If they go missing, they’ll just figure a street kid needed a blanket.”

“There’s no need to go get that now,” says Delilah, looking concerned. “Just wait until morning.”

“It’s fine, I’ll just get it quickly and come back.” You don’t mention that the idea of being watched by unknown persons disturbs you as much as it does Tabitha, if not more. The other women haven’t heard the stories that come out of the Flooded District. Certainly some must be urban myths, but you suspect that a few may approach the truth.

You Blink out the second-floor window, alighting on a nearby bridge. Your memory of the route is from the street level, which makes navigating from the roof difficult. Once you make your way out of the Flooded District, you take to the roads again, just for the feel of the cobblestone beneath your boots.

It doesn’t take long to reach the woodworking shop. The sign reading _Emma’s Hardware_ swings above the front door. You head around to the back and Blink over the sharp-pointed gate into the shop’s backyard storage area. Stacks of wood are piled high, covered by thick tarps to protect them from the rain. You reach up to tug one off, and it flutters to the ground. Quickly, you fold it up and stuff it into your bag. After a second’s consideration, you grab another one and stow it away.

Back on the other side of the fence, you sling your bag over your shoulder and head south, back towards the Flooded District. As you hurry down the street, a voice calls out to you from the shadows, and you freeze.

“Going somewhere, sweetheart?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a group of four men standing around in the back alley behind some tavern. You hear conversation and the clinking of glasses emanating from inside.

You pull your jacket tighter around you and start walking a little faster. To your horror, the men begin to follow you, their footsteps echoing out behind you.

“Wait a minute,” one of them calls out. “I know you!”

Oh, damn it all. You forgot the scarf you use to cover your face.

“No, you don’t,” you reply, quickening your pace. One of the men breaks out into a run behind you. You whirl around a second too late, as he fastens his hand onto your arm.

“I know you,” he repeats, peering curiously into your face. “You’re the one from all the posters.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, attempting to wrench your arm out of his grasp. “Leave me alone!”

“I think he’s right,” says another one of the men as he approaches. “She looks different without the fancy clothes, but that looks like the Ashworth girl.”

The man gripping your arm leers at you. “That banker Thurston’s put a mighty big price on your head, darlin’.”

“We should bring her in,” another one says. “Split the reward and live comfortably, eh?”

“Bullshit,” says the man restraining you. “I’m the one what caught her, I’m bringin’ her in!”

You can’t take them all on, but that won’t stop you from trying. As you prepare a spell, though, something else happens first.

The man furthest from you is yanked upwards into the sky by an unseen force. He disappears over the lip of the tavern’s roof, his scream of surprise fading.

“What the hell was that?!” another yells, before vines erupt from the street below him, cracking the cobblestones as they rise. He tries to run but is dragged to the ground by one long tendril wrapping around his ankle. His shrieks continue as the vines swarm rapidly over him, covering and constricting his body. There’s a loud, meaty _crack_ , then he goes still.

The man not holding your arm staggers back in horror before running for the tavern door, but a dark shape drops onto him out of the air, pinning him to the ground. You can only hear his howls of pain; the one holding your arm is trying to drag you away, apparently too greedy to let you go.

Summoning a spell, you knock the man who’d grabbed you backward with a huge blast of air. He goes skidding across the cobblestones before slumping against the wall. You’re frozen, not sure how to finish this.

The decision is made for you.

Stalking out of the shadows, the figure heads directly for the last survivor and sinks her blade through his chest. He lets out a long, gurgling breath before finally going silent. There’s an unpleasant squelching noise as she withdraws her knife from his torso.

Standing over the body, breathing hard, is Delilah.

~

“Breanna,” Delilah says, turning to you. Her face is pale and stricken. “Are you alright?” She walks quickly towards you, but you find yourself backing away.

“You _followed_ me?!”

Delilah holds up her hands in a placating gesture, one that is ruined somewhat by the bloody knife in her right hand. “I just wanted to make sure you’d be safe. None of us are ever supposed to go out alone, it makes us vulnerable-“

“Except you, right? No one else can be trusted to take care of herself, is that how you see it?”

You’re not sure where this anger is coming from, but it’s pouring out of you now, uncontrollable and potent.

Delilah looks shocked. Good. “It’s a damn lucky thing I followed you! You would’ve been dragged off by those men if I hadn’t done something!”

“I had it under control!” you shout. It’s then that you notice that the noises from the nearby tavern have all but ceased.

“You most certainly did _not_! You were- Breanna!” You’re already Blinking up to a balcony, then to the roof above. Not a second later, Delilah is there, right behind you.

“Breanna, listen to me-“

You whirl around to face her. “You just killed _four men_. You think that’s going to go unnoticed?”

“They were going to kidnap you!” There’s a vicious pleasure in hearing her concern. _Look at me,_ you’re thinking, _notice me, haven’t I been by your side all this time? What have I done to lose your attention?_

“Oh, give me a little credit,” you sneer, “I’ve been a witch for nearly as long as you have. I was just about to escape when you showed up.”

Delilah heaves a sigh of frustration. “Breanna, I’ve never doubted your abilities-”

“Then why did you follow me?”

“Because I- I was worried!” She throws up her hands. “Is that so terrible of me?”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“Why worry?” You cross your arms and stare her down. “If you know I can take care of myself, what reason is there to be concerned about my well-being?”

She passes a hand over her face. “Breanna, please don’t do this. You’re making this so much harder than it needs to be.”

“I’m making what harder than it needs to be?” You’ve had practice with inane arguments. You can do this all night. There’s adrenaline blazing in your blood, heating your face and causing your heart to thump too fast for comfort.

Delilah drops her arms to her sides, and suddenly she looks so tired. Spattered with the blood of four men, and she somehow manages to look vulnerable.

“You must know,” she says in a small, defeated voice. “You have to know by now.”

“No, I don’t know. I can’t read your mind or- look into your dreams or something. If you have something to tell me, tell me directly.” Your hands are trembling, so you clench them into fists.

Delilah speaks slowly, carefully. “I followed you because I couldn’t stand to think of any harm coming to you. I killed those men out of anger because they laid a hand on you.” She lifts her gaze to yours. “Maybe it wasn’t smart, but I don’t regret it.”

She continues, taking a few steps toward you. “You were my first acolyte, Breanna. You trusted in me before anyone else did, and you’ve been loyal ever since. Don’t you know how much I value you? Don’t you know how it would hurt me to see you taken away?”

Your anger is as quick to leave as it was to surface. You bow your head, unable to even look her in the eye.

“I know.” You know that you’d forgive her for nearly anything. You know you’d follow her to the ends of the earth. You know you’d die for her, and that is a terrifying thing to know.

“Do you?”

“I do.” You want so badly to believe her.

“Then let’s go home.” She slides one arm over your shoulders, and together you make your way home, subdued.

Tabitha and Heather are still in the main room when you arrive back with Delilah. They jump to their feet at the sight of both of you stained with blood, but Delilah holds up a reassuring hand.

“It’s alright,” she tells them, “we’re both fine.”

“What happened- ” Heather starts, but she’s silenced by a significant look from Tabitha.

“Let’s clean up,” Delilah murmurs to you.

Back in your room, you silently change your clothes and scrub a few smears of blood from your arms with a wet washcloth. Delilah does the same on the other side of the room, separated from you by the bedframe. There’s dark blood and dirt mixed together under your fingernails. You can feel a bruise forming where the man had grabbed your arm.

You settle down on your mattress next to Delilah, feeling her eyes on you as you turn your back to her. Hopefully the tension in the air will dissipate by tomorrow morning, and you can forget about embarrassing yourself like this in front of Delilah. You were far too vulnerable, far too close to telling her the truth. You can’t let yourself get to that point again.

Before you know it, you’ve dozed off out of sheer exhaustion. You wake very gradually to the sound of the creaking floor. There’s a dip in your mattress where there wasn’t one before, a silhouette in the moonlight where before there was empty darkness.

She’s facing the wall, her back to the grey light spilling in through the window. Just the edges of her pale face are illuminated, sketched onto the black background of the room. She sits on your mattress, knees drawn to her chest.

Her hand brushes yours. Heart pounding, half-awake, your mind goes blank.

“Tell me to leave,” says Delilah, so quietly you almost miss it. “Tell me to go and I won’t trouble you any further.”

You sit up slowly.

“I’ll understand,” she says, still looking away from you. “It won’t be the first time I’ve misunderstood-“

You take cup the side of her face in your hand and turn it towards you. Delilah breaks off, lips still parted.

You lean in and kiss her.

It’s a few seconds. It’s an eternity. It’s the consummation of a year’s longing and a lifetime’s loneliness. Her lips are soft and her eyelashes flutter against your cheek and through the rushing warmth that clouds your mind you think, _So this is how it feels_.

You break away finally to breathe. Her face is still so close to yours and her eyes are half-closed, as if she expects you to lean in again. And of course you want that too, more than anything right now, but you have to ask her something first.

“How long?”

Her eyes open and meet yours.

“A long time,” she says at last. “Practically since the beginning.”

Her hand moves to cover yours on the mattress. “And you?”

An incredulous laugh bubbles up in your throat. “It’s the same for me.” You lean your forehead against hers and shake with quiet laughter.

“What idiots we’ve been,” you tell her.

~

You wake the next morning with Delilah’s warm body still curled up next to you, one arm thrown over your waist. You’d fallen asleep like that, kissing lazily and murmuring back and forth, too tired and relieved to do much else. The tip of her nose is pressed against the back of your neck. The small intimacy of it makes you feel as though you could almost cry.

When you move to sit up, she mumbles a sleepy complaint and pulls you back down.

“We have to get up eventually.”

“Just a little longer,” she murmurs. “Come lie back down and keep me warm.”

You happily oblige her.

About an hour later, you stir yourself awake again. Without the haze of sleep clouding your mind, worry begins to creep back in. Fear of judgment from your coven-sisters, fear of capture by groups of men like the ones last night- it all floods your waking mind.

“I can hear those gears turning in your brain,” says Delilah. “You’re thinking too much, my dear.”

The words _my dear_ manage to distract you for a good half-minute before you remember what you were concerned about.

“What will we tell the coven?” you ask her. “Some of them are bound to find out.”

“I don’t see why we have to tell them anything. We don’t owe them an explanation.”

You wish you had her self-assurance. “You don’t think they’ll see it as favoritism?”

She snorts. “This isn’t a company, Breanna. Everyone’s already aware that you’ve been by my side the longest and are therefore more experienced than any of them. You’re essentially my unofficial lieutenant.”

It’s your turn to laugh now. “Lieutenant?”

She shrugs self-consciously. “It seemed like a fitting title. Do you have any other ideas?”

“Yeah,” you say, snuggling up a little closer to her. “I like ‘lover’ a bit better.”

“Such a charmer.” She kisses your forehead. You think you might melt.

You doze a while longer, feeling Delilah’s pulse thump so close, so very close to you. Then you remember the other thing you’d meant to ask her about.

“Delilah?”

“Hm?”

“You remember what those men were saying last night? About recognizing me from some posters?”

She frowns. “Yes. And something about your old fiancé having put out a reward for you.”

You shift in her arms. “As long as those posters are up, this could happen again. I can’t have people recognizing me.”

“I agree. But none of us have seen anything like that on our trips to the city. Believe me, I’d tell you if I did.”

“Which means they’re somewhere that we don’t visit.”

You both fall silent a minute.

“The Estate District,” you conclude. “They must be there. Thurston almost never leaves that part of the city. He never liked interacting with the lower classes.”

“Sounds like a real prize. You shouldn’t travel there alone, for reasons that I think should be obvious.”

You wince at the gory memory of last night. “Should I bring someone with me?”

“I could join you, if you like.”

You almost say yes. Then you think of the opulent manors of the Estate District. The glistening streets and polished windows, the white-stone buildings. You don’t want her to see that part of your past, you realize. You’re embarrassed by it.

“It’s fine,” you tell her instead. “You’ve done plenty for me already. I can bring someone else, anyone who’s free tonight.”

She doesn’t respond for a moment, and you fear you’ve upset her.

“Bring Tabitha,” she says at last. “She’s very capable, and I’m sure she’d be happy to help you. She admires you a great deal.”

You flush a little. “Really?”

“Of course. She told me as much.”

“She’s changed so much,” you murmur. “Remember when she used to flinch at loud sounds?”

“They’ve all changed,” says Delilah. “It’s the byproduct of freedom.”

~

Around suppertime, you find Tabitha gazing out an intact window to the swamplike waters below.

“Tabitha?”

“Hm?” She turns to you. “Ah, Breanna. Need something?”

“Actually, I could use your help, if you’re free tonight.”

“Anything to get me out of here for a few hours. I’ve been so bored all day. It’s been ages since we’ve done anything fun!” She pushes off from the wall where she’s been leaning. Her hair’s shorter; she must have cut it recently.

“What do you need?” Tabitha asks.

You lower your voice. “I ran into trouble a few nights ago in town. You remember the fiancé I told you about? Thurston?”

She nods, frowning slightly.

“Apparently he’s put out a ransom for me. I had no idea anyone was still looking for me, but a group of men recognized me and nearly captured me. Delilah had to intervene. They’d seen my face on some posters Thurston put up around the Estate District.”

“Shit, it’s been a year since you left him. He’s still searching?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I can’t risk being recognized again, especially if I’m on my own somewhere. I was going to head out tonight and take down all the ones I can find. Would you be able to come with me?”

“Of course. Let me grab some things and we’ll head out after dark, okay?” She’s grown so much more confident in the months since she joined you. Even the way she holds herself has changed.

“Thank you, Tabitha.”

“No need to thank me.” She flips her hair over her shoulder. “Like I said, I’ve been dying to get out of the district all day.”

After sunset, when the last bands of orange and crimson are fading over the horizon, you meet Tabitha on the roof. She’s got a bag slung over her back and a knife tucked into her belt.

You survey the city skyline. “We should probably stick to the rooftops as far as we can. The Watch may be patrolling the streets of the Estate District.”

The sky turns navy blue above you as the pair of you make your rooftop way to the Estate District. Some of the gaps between buildings can be jumped without much effort; others require you to Blink across. After so much practice it feels like second nature, just stepping in a certain way and appearing exactly where you meant to be. Every time, you brush up against the cold Void, but it doesn’t frighten you like it used to.

The crunching gravel that covers the industrial rooftops begins to disappear beneath your feet, replaced by terracotta shingles and slate tiles. The buildings space themselves out, affording their inhabitants the rare luxury of privacy. You’ve reached the estates.

“This is where you’re from, isn’t it?” says Tabitha, looking out over the neighborhood at your side.

You point to where you know the Ashworth manor still stands. “Over in that direction. I haven’t been back since…since I left, I suppose.”

“Well, you know the area,” says Tabitha, thankfully not pressing the topic. “Where should we start?”

You pull your scarf over the lower half of your face. “We can descend from here to Knight Street. There’s a bulletin board down there that’ll be worth checking.”

After scanning the area for Watch officers, you make your way to street level, Blinking from water pipes to windowsills to awnings. Tabitha follows, dropping soundlessly to the cobblestone street.

“Look.” She points at the bulletin board, across which your face has been plastered. Sucking in a breath through your teeth, you head to take a closer look at it.

“You look different there,” says Tabitha. It’s an artist’s rendering of you, but you look closer to eighteen than twenty-three. Your expression is one of mild, naïve concern, and your hair is pinned up the way it was at your graduation party. You finger the loose braid you keep it in these days, long and draped over one shoulder.

Below the image, the description reads:

_MISSING: Breanna Ashworth_

_Breanna was found missing from her family home on the 27 th of the Month of Timber, a mere day before her marriage to Emil Thurston of Conway Banking. She was last seen the evening of the 26th wearing a navy blue pantsuit. Foul play is suspected. Anyone having information on her whereabouts should contact her fiancé at 808 Ivory Plaza near the Banking District._

_A reward of 10,000 coin will be given to whoever can bring her home unharmed._

There’s a few more defining personal details: your hair color, eye color, skin tone, and age.

“Wow,” says Tabitha. “It says to contact him, instead of your family?”

In a flash of rage, you rip the poster from the corkboard, leaving only a few shreds of paper behind. Tabitha stares.

“That’s one down.”

Thankfully, you are undisturbed on your quest through the district. The good thing about the rich inhabitants of this district is that they don’t go out alone at night, even in their own neighborhood. Tabitha helps you tear down each poster you find: they’re pinned to bulletin boards, stuck to lampposts, even littered in a few alleys. Each and every one is picked up and stuffed into your bag.

It’s nearly two in the morning by the time you stop seeing your own face peering at you from seemingly every corner.

“Is that another one?” You make for another brick building, but Tabitha pulls you back.

“No, darling, that’s just a newspaper. I think you’re seeing these things where they’re not there.”

You struggle halfheartedly against her grip. “I have to get them all, or else it’ll happen again…”

“Shh, it’s alright, we’ve got them.” She slings an arm around your shoulder, rubbing reassuring circles into your upper arm. “Let’s do some quick tourism while we’re here. Where did that fiancé live again?”

“You saw his address. He’s over in the banking district, that way.” As soon as you point the direction, Tabitha’s expression changes for a split second. She looks nearly feral.

“Come on, then.” In a flash, she’s gone from your side, perched on a nearby balcony, then on a heating unit, then the roof again. With a roll of your eyes, you follow her.

She’s Blinking fast across the rooftops, and you struggle to keep up.

“Wait up!” you hiss. “Why do we need to go there?” She doesn’t answer.

Finally, Tabitha comes to a halt, and you skid to a stop beside her just before you reach the edge of the building you stand on. Before you lies the opulent Ivory Plaza, home to some of the Estate District’s wealthiest citizens.

“It’s that one, yeah?” Tabitha indicates the next building over, flat-roofed and marked by a skylight.

“Yes- Tabs, wait!” She’s over the wide gap as soon as the words are out of your mouth, reappearing by the skylight.

“What are you doing?” You Blink to her side, and she turns to give you a mischievous grin.

“Just a little exploration. Think we can get in through this thing?” She doesn’t even wait for an answer before crouching to fiddle with the handle.

“Tabs, he’s probably got guards in there! Are you trying to get us caught?”

Suddenly, her expression is serious once again. “We won’t get caught.” With that, she pulls open the skylight opening and drops through it.

“Ugh!” You clench your fists and look to the night sky for strength before following her.

~

Balanced on the balls of your feet, you creep through the halls of Thurston’s manor, Tabitha at your side. This is the uppermost floor; you’d only passed through it before, in your old life, but now you take in all the paintings, the ornate sculptures and glass-caged artifacts. You wander over to the massive portrait of Thurston that hangs on the wall. The artist was perhaps too kind in their portrayal of him.

“Nice stuff,” Tabitha whispers from behind you. “Think he’ll miss it?”

You whirl around to find her easing open a glass case containing a golden whale statuette.

“ _Tabitha!_ ”

“I don’t think he will.” With an audacious wink, she pulls the statuette from the case and wraps it in rags before placing it in her bag.

You’re torn between amusement and outrage. “Tabitha, he’s going to know we did this! He’ll see all the posters gone and put two and two together.”

“Yeah, he’ll probably know it had something to do with you,” she muses, reaching for a few lacquered urns.

You take a step back from her, shocked. “I thought you came here to help me, not to loot!”

She turns to face you, serious once more. “I did.” She straightens up, slinging her bag back over her shoulder. “Let’s take a walk.”

Speechless, you follow her down the long hall. The top floor is mostly a walkway around the perimeter, edged with banisters. If you look down, you can see all the way to the first floor. Tabitha seems to be looking for something, her posture predatory, though she continues to steal items as she goes from door to door. Finally, she stops at one door and beckons you over. From inside, you hear a loud, continuous snoring.

“He lives alone here, right?” Tabitha whispers to you. You nod, confused.

Without another word, she takes hold of the handle and slowly, silently opens the door. You cover your mouth in shock, scared to make a sound.

“Stay by the doorway,” Tabitha mouths. She then strides inside, hand drifting to her hip. Too late, you realize what she must intend to do.

“You can’t kill him!” you hiss to her. She stops mid-step and shakes her head.

In wordless horror, you watch as Tabitha drifts to Thurston’s bedside. You can make out his corpulent form, stretched out and snoring in his four-poster bed. It doesn’t surprise you to find that you still feel nothing for the man. You wouldn’t mind seeing him dead but for the massive trouble it’ll bring you and the coven.

With agile grace, Tabitha swiftly climbs on top of his sleeping form, jerking him awake with a gasp. The sharp point of her knife glints against his throat, and your eyes go wide.

“Agh-!” Thurston cries, before Tabitha secures her free hand over his mouth. His struggling ceases when she presses the knife a little harder against his throat.

“Evening, Emil,” she coos. “It’s _so_ good to finally meet like this. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

He tries to rip his head away from her grasp. “Guards!” he wheezes, but Tabitha silences him with another press of the knife.

“Your guards don’t know we’re here. And if you try to call for them again, my friend here will be forced to kill them along with you. I’m here to make you a _deal_ , Thurston.”

He goes still.

“You like making deals, don’t you? That’s how you got this lovely manor and all those pretty trinkets out in the halls. But this one will be the most important deal you ever make. Ready to hear it?”

You see him nod, eyeing you by the door. Your scarf is still pulled over your face; you’re not sure if he recognizes you.

“Here’s my offer.” Tabitha sits up straighter astride Thurston. “You are going to stop looking for your fiancée, Breanna Ashworth. You will stop printing posters, rescind the reward and make it publicly known that you have given up on finding her. She doesn’t _want_ to be found.”

Thurston makes a noise of outrage, and Tabitha hushes him.

“Do this, and I’ll uphold my end of the bargain. You’ll never have to see me or my associate here ever again. You’ll live safely in your nice big house with your useless guards and never have to worry about a thing.”

She leans in closer, teeth bared, feral and unrestrained. “But if you don’t keep your end of the deal- if you report this to the Watch, or send another squad after Breanna- then I’ll be back to pay you another visit. And it won’t be near as pleasant as this one.”

Thurston whimpers. It’s such a satisfying sound. You’re rapt with attention as Tabitha continues.

“Oh no, I won’t be nice.” She traces the knife almost lovingly down his face. “First I’ll kill your guards, so there’s no one to hear your screams. Then I’ll take this knife and plunge it through your stomach, so you’re gutted like a fish. And when I’m reassured that you’ve felt the most pain you can feel, that you’ve suffered a lifetime’s worth as you deserve to, then I’ll slit your throat and let you bleed out onto these soft feather pillows. How does that sound, Emil?” She takes her hand off his mouth now.

“Yes, I’ll do it, please don’t hurt me,” he babbles. “I’ll leave her alone, just please let me live!”

Tabitha replaces the knife in her belt. “Then you know what to do. I’ve given you very clear instructions. Don’t fuck it up, or you know what will happen.”

She scrambles off the bed and is by your side in an instant. “The skylight,” she whispers to you, and together you make your escape from the mansion, fueled by adrenaline and excitement.

You put a decent distance between yourselves and the Ivory Plaza before you stop to speak.

“I’m sorry,” Tabitha pants out, before you have a chance to speak a word. “I knew you wouldn’t like the idea. But I knew that was the only way to keep him away from you for good.”

“I’m not upset,” you tell her. It’s the truth. “I only wish I’d thought to do it myself. You think he’ll really do what you said?”

“Absolutely. He was terrified. Probably he’s never had anyone threaten him in his life.” She chuckles. “Plus, look at all the loot we got!” She pats her bag lovingly.

You walk together with her, back across the rooftops, the urgency of the moment now gone. “That’s two nights in a row that someone’s been killed or threatened for my sake. I’m not sure how to feel about it.”

“Breanna, Delilah was protecting you, just like I wanted to. I know I tease you about being an aristocrat, but I’d sooner die than see you dragged back to your old life. The same goes for any coven sister.”

You’re quiet for a minute, processing what Tabitha has said.

“I’ve never seen you like that before,” you say at last. “With the knife and everything. Where’d you learn that kind of intimidation?”

Tabitha gives a self-conscious laugh. “You know, it really just came to me in the moment. I was so furious at him, ever since I saw those stupid posters he put everywhere. I wanted him to know that he didn’t own you, that no one did.” She turns to look at you. “I’m sure you realize why that’s important to me.”

You recall your first meeting with Tabitha, when she was still battered and bruised and so, so afraid. Certainly you understand why she would want to prevent other men from having control over her new family.

“You’ve changed.” A look of surprise crosses her face. “For the better, I mean,” you say. “You’re like a different woman now. Confidence looks good on you.”

A sheepish, sweet smile crosses her face. “Same goes for you, sister.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Every drop of blood is sacrificed to the grail. Love cannot be bought with any other coin.”

                             - _The Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

Time passes, and the coven expands.

Delilah was right; the mansion you now inhabit can comfortably accommodate the coven’s enlarged numbers. There are now eleven witches here, yourself and Delilah included. Accordingly, the coven’s territory expands, and you take up a more official position as Delilah’s lieutenant. If anyone catches on to your other relationship to her, they don’t mention it to you.

No one comes to bother the women here anymore. Gone are the staring eyes at windows, the footsteps ringing out on nearby scaffoldings. Whatever happened to them, they must have understood that their strange new neighbors were not to be trifled with.

With each new recruit comes a new set of talents and resources. Evie, in particular, was trained as an herbalist, a skillset that became incredibly useful once she gained the ability to grow plants at will. These and the extracts she makes of them bring in more income to support the coven. The women trade with vendors in the city so extensively that they grow to have a sort of authority over certain parts of the city. Two abandoned apartments north up the river are secured for the use of the coven. Guarded by gravehounds, your coven-sisters use the buildings as a base for reports on the city and as a place to stay after a long day of trading and buying.

The coven’s activity, however, does not go unnoticed.

One afternoon, there comes a knock on the building’s front door, the one not submerged under water. The witches chatting and practicing in the main room freeze, and all eyes turn toward the door. No one has dared to even approach the door since the coven moved in, let alone knock on it as if you were all living in some normal, friendly neighborhood instead of an aquatic, lawless no-man’s-land.

You manifest the gravehound by the door, where it waits, growling.

“There’s only one figure there,” Heather whispers to you. “I checked with the Void Gaze.”

“Should we answer it?” Evie murmurs.

Slowly, you walk to the door, gravehound at your side. Reaching out, you turn the handle and open the door, your other hand braced on the hound’s back.

The figure at the door raises their empty hands to shoulder level as soon as they see the gravehound. They wear a leather coat studded with pouches and, most noticeably, an industrial gas mask, the kind used in the whale oil processing plants. The outfit covers every inch of skin, from head to toe.

“Relax,” they say, “I’m unarmed. I’m here on business only.” The voice is masculine. You haven’t spoken with a man in a long time.

“May I come in?” he asks.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m here on behalf of my master Daud, who also lives in the Flooded District. Is your leader here?”

“I am,” comes Delilah’s voice from somewhere behind you, just as you’d opened your mouth to respond. “Let him in, Breanna. I know what group he’s part of.”

Warily, you take a step back, letting the masked man pass through the doorway.

“What errand are you here on?” says Delilah, coming to stand by your side. The man turns to her.

“My master Daud and the Whalers welcome you and your coven to the Flooded District,” he says, without a hint of sarcasm.

“We’ve been here months,” Delilah says brusquely. “He’s just now choosing to welcome us to the neighborhood?”

The figure raises their hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. “I’m sure you know how things are in this area. Most people only stop by for a week or two before trying to find shelter elsewhere. It seems that you and your coven are here to stay, then?”

“That’s correct.” Delilah’s gaze never leaves the black, reflective lenses of the man’s mask.

“Then I only have one more message to deliver.” The Whaler clasps his hands behind his back. “Daud’s territory is comprised of the Central Rudshore area. The train station building? I’m sure you’re aware of it.”

Delilah nods.

“A few of your witches have been seen prowling the area. My master Daud sees no reason to make an issue of it, so long as it doesn’t occur again. Please pass on the message to your coven that they are to stay out of the area. We’re already on high alert, with the increased presence of Overseers in the city. Someone might get hurt if we see them scouting out our territory.” The Whaler’s tone is professional, almost cheery. It’s absolutely surreal.

“Fair enough,” says Delilah. “I’ll tell the others. In turn, I expect you and yours to stay away from our building here.”

“Of course,” says the man. “Well, that’s all. Thanks for your cooperation.” Without another word, he walks out the door and- vanishes. A few of your coven-sisters gasp behind you.

You shut the door and turn to Delilah. “You know that group?”

“The Whalers,” says Delilah. She’s speaking to the whole room now. “They’re a collective of assassins under the leadership of Daud, another Marked. I had hoped to avoid any interaction with them.”

“So they’ve got magic too?” says Evie.

“Yes. Daud must have shared his powers like I’ve shared mine with all of you. You heard what the Whaler said. Avoid the Central Rudshore area. Do not try to investigate it in any way. We don’t want to start anything with a group of hired killers.”

“Why did he go so far as to tell us exactly where they’re located, though? I mean, that guy just demonstrated Void powers right in front of us. All we’d have to do is tip off the Overseers and they’d raid their place.”

Delilah shoots a sharp look at Evie. “Because they also know exactly where _we’re_ located, along with the fact that we’re clearly witches. They could do the same thing to us. We’re operating on a very careful balance of trust and self-preservation. I expect that none of you will do anything to upset that balance.”

“What a fucking lunatic,” Kai says to you later, in private. “What kind of assassin sends his men around to greet newcomers?”

The territory issue comes up again, not much later, with a somewhat less courteous group.

It’s the apartments that end up being the cause of all the trouble. One evening, as you help Delilah prepare dinner, Naria returns with Mariah, her scouting partner. They appear in the window entrance and stagger down from the sill, Naria supporting Mariah’s weight. Mariah’s face is tear-streaked, and she clutches her left arm to her chest.

Immediately, you go to them, helping Mariah over to the table and rolling up her sleeve to inspect her arm as Naria gives an explanation.

“We were just north of the apartments,” she’s saying to Delilah, “west of Kaldwin’s Bridge. It was my fault, I should’ve known it was contested territory-“

“Naria. Just tell me what happened.”

She gulps a deep breath. “The Parliament Street Cutters happened. Four of them. One of them clubbed Mariah’s arm before we could get away. We had to use magic, Delilah, they would’ve killed us otherwise.”

“You did what you had to,” says Delilah. She sets a hand on Naria’s shoulder. “What matters is that you both made it out.”

You listen to her as you inspect Mariah’s arm. Her face is drawn and tight with pain, her arm swollen to twice its regular size, purple with blood. When you shift it slightly, she bites back a cry.

“This territory issue has gone on long enough,” says Delilah, addressing the group of women who have assembled. “They haven’t been so bold as to attack us before, but they can’t be allowed to do it again.”

“What should we do?” says Brunhilde nervously.

“I’ll have to arrange a meeting with them,” says Delilah. “It’s customary for gang leaders to meet each other in person to arrange terms of an agreement.”

“Will that be safe?”

“My powers will be more than enough to protect us. I’ll have to get a message to them somehow. For now, avoid that area of the city.” Delilah glances over at Mariah, and you see a flash of fury pass over her face.

“They’ll be held accountable for this.”

You turn your attention to Mariah, who whimpers in pain as you palpate her arm for the break, which seems to be in the ulna.

“We’ll have to set this,” you tell her. “It won’t be pleasant, but after that we should be able to do some healing magic. You’ll need a sling for at least a week.” She nods unhappily.

Delilah’s words echo in your mind. You have a feeling she won’t be letting the Cutters forget this.

~

Delilah finds you in one of the manor’s bathrooms, where you’re busy numbing Mariah’s arm with ice and setting the bones straight.

“Need something?” you say to her over your shoulder. “We should be done her in a moment.”

“I’ll wait. Again, Mariah, I’m very sorry this happened.”

Mariah shakes her head. “Please, don’t be. It was bound to occur sooner or later.”

After you tie up her sling, she hops off the counter, thanks you, and heads to Evie’s room to pick up a poultice for the injury. Delilah leans in the doorway as you clean up your materials and straighten back up.

“Putting that anatomical knowledge to work, I see.”

“Someone’s got to do it.” You turn to her, pulse fluttering when you realize you’re alone with her again. “What did you want to talk about?”

Delilah glances over her shoulder before turning back to you, speaking in a quiet voice. “The men who did this to Mariah…this almost certainly won’t be the last time we hear from them. They’re used to violence, more experienced in it than we are. I worry about you and the others relying too much on your powers.”

“Meaning?”

She takes a step closer. “I want to teach you to fight. Without magic, that is.”

“Me?” You could almost laugh. “I’ve never wielded so much as a butter knife before. What makes you think I’d be any good at fighting?”

“You might not be,” she replies, gaze intent. “At least not at first. But things are only going to get more dangerous from here on out. I want you by my side, but I couldn’t forgive myself if you ever got hurt.”

“…You really think it’s going to get more dangerous?” A dark thrill goes through you. Fear or something else.

Delilah nods solemnly. “We need to be as deadly as anyone who might oppose us.”

If Delilah believes you can do this, perhaps it’s possible.

“Well,” you reply, “I suppose it’s better not to have to rely on you swooping in to save me every time I land myself in trouble.”

She laughs at that. It’s a rare, clear sound.

The next day, Delilah ushers you up to the roof of the manor, clearly excited.

“I was thinking last night of some training exercises. Once a few of us know them, we can teach the others.”

Climbing the ladder to the roof, you’re stopped short by the sight that meets you.

Propped up scarecrow-like on wooden poles are three sackcloth figures stuffed with rags and cotton fluff from the innards of mattresses. Other pieces of wood extend from their bodies to form the rough shape of arms.

You cover your mouth and suppress the wave of giggles that threatens to overcome you. Delilah isn’t fazed.

“Yes, I know they’re not pretty, but they’ll do.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be an artist?” You can’t help but tease her.

In place of a response, she tosses you another piece of wood that you barely catch before it hits your face. This one, you notice while turning it over in your hands, is sanded and smooth, shaped like a sword but with a duller point.

“This is what we’ll be practicing with. No blades until you’re much more experienced.”

“And here I was so looking forward to stabbing myself in the foot.”

The first thing she teaches you is how to strike from several different angles. There’s upward curving down, straight thrust in, downward curving up, and seemingly endless more variations. The mock-figures suffer the brunt of your attacks, but you manage to keep your frustration to a minimum. If you can learn magic from Delilah, then you can certainly learn combat.

Next comes a disarming strike. For this one, the combat figures won’t suffice. Delilah takes the role of your opponent instead.

“Where did you learn all this, anyway?” you ask, after once again failing to knock Delilah’s sword out of her hand.

“Disarm me and I’ll tell you.” She sways back and forth, perched lightly on the balls of her feet.

“This is ridiculous.” Another attempt sees your own sword flying out of your hand.

“Come on, try again.” This time, as she makes her attack, you dodge to the side and stick your leg out behind her ankles, aiming to sweep her. To both of your utter surprise, it works, and Delilah topples to the ground with a loud curse. Taking the opportunity, you straddle her torso and hold the blunt edge of your sword against her throat, like you’d seen Tabitha do to Thurston that one night.

For a long moment, she just stares up at you, wide-eyed and stunned.

Then, she’s laughing again, and you’re laughing with her.

“Alright,” she chuckles, “maybe I underestimated your willingness to fight dirty. Care to let me up now?”

“No, I’m quite comfortable here.” You squeeze your thighs a little tighter around her, and she flushes slightly.

“I suppose I have to tell you how I learned this now.”

“That was the deal.” You’re very much enjoying this.

She crosses her arms behind her head and gazes up at you.

“I spent a year in Serkonos while Sokolov was there on some political errand. The young Serkonan prince took quite a liking to me. He told me he would give me anything I asked for.”

“And what did you request?”

“That he teach me to fight.” She smiles, recalling the memory. “He was surprised by my answer, but complied. He, of course, had been tutored in swordplay from a young age. I learned a great deal from him. By the time I left, I was fairly proficient myself.”

“And now, here you are, passing on a prince’s knowledge to me.” You lean down and peck her on the lips, feeling possessive for some reason.

“You’re not distracting me that easily,” she says with a laugh, squirming beneath you. “Come on, back to practice.”

“Fine.” You stand up off her. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask for all of Serkonos.”

She gets to her feet, brushing dust from her knees. “I told him I could get that on my own. I said that the next time I saw him, we’d be equals in power.”

You block her next attack, and the one after that, but hesitate to put forth a strike yourself. Delilah notices.

“Try some attacks. You shouldn’t stay on the defensive all the time.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Violence doesn’t come as naturally to you as you’d hoped. Realizing that you’d hoped for that is disconcerting on its own.

“You won’t. These are wooden sticks, remember?” You roll your eyes.

“Yes, I know that, but-“ You stop mid-sentence to block a sudden strike from Delilah. It takes all your strength to hold your position and not be beaten back by her strength.

“I’ll give you a kiss,” she says in a low voice, “each time you can land a hit on me. How does that sound?”

As motivation, it works wonders.

~

“I’d like you to come with me,” Delilah says to you a few nights later, as you’re curled around each other, mattresses shoved together to better accommodate the both of you. “To the meeting.”

“The one with the Parliament Street Cutters, you mean?”

“Yes. I don’t think it will turn violent, at least not so early on, but I want the one I trust most there with me all the same.”

“Of course.” You stroke her hair absentmindedly. “Poor Mariah. I hope her arm heals quickly.”

“These men are vicious brutes, Breanna. They won’t be easy to deal with. I fear Mariah won’t be the last to be harmed by them.”

“If it comes down to it, then we’ll just have to be vicious right back,” you tell her.

The meeting takes place the next day, in neutral territory in the North End. Delilah brings you, Tabitha, Evie, and Brunhilde. The less level-headed witches are left to guard the manor. Naria had wanted to come along, but Delilah had insisted she stay behind, lest the men recognize her from the encounter with Mariah.

Four men await you in the dingy North End alleyway where you meet. They appear to be unarmed, as the agreement had stated, but there’s no accounting for hidden weapons. The area is entirely deserted otherwise. As you eye them suspiciously, the smallest of them steps forward to greet the group of you.

“The ladies I’ve been hearing so much about,” he says, tone thick with sarcasm. “I appreciate you meeting us here.”

Behind him, two of the men are having some kind of hushed discussion. One keeps sneaking glances at you.

“-telling you,” one is saying, “that’s her, the missing Ashworth girl-“

“Hey, shut up!” the smaller man barks at them. Delilah shoots them a sharp look.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” the man continues. “I’m Vincent Douglas, leader of the Parliament Street Cutters.”

“Delilah Copperspoon,” says Delilah shortly. “I came here to resolve the trouble we seem to be having at the borders of our territory.”

“Territory? Hm.” Vincent makes a show of scratching his chin. “I wasn’t aware that you ladies had an established territory.”

“We’ve been operating north of the Flooded District for months. We trade and offer protection to businesses. No other gangs receive such treatment in the area. If that doesn’t constitute territory, I don’t know what does.”

“Fine, fine.” He holds up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “We’ll agree on some borders, alright? That much is customary.”

The discussion goes on for at least half an hour. It’s mostly Delilah and Vincent arguing back and forth about exactly which streets fall into their domain, and if some bridge could be considered belonging to one of them or split between the two. It seems petty at first, but you’re beginning to realize how important this agreement might be. If both groups stick to their terms, that means there’s a whole area of the city that you and the other witches are forbidden to go near- and that’s just one gang. If others start kicking up a fuss, the coven’s reach might become more limited.

One of Vincent’s men catches your eye and winks. You glare at him and converse quietly with Brunhilde instead.

In the end, the borders are settled. The Parliament Street Cutters manage to get more riverside territory- Vincent claims it’s due to ‘seniority’- but the coven secures some inland gains. A map is passed around, lines drawn across it, segmenting it into pieces.

“So glad we could settle this,” Vincent is saying to Delilah, who eyes him as if he were something stuck to her shoe.

“And there’ll be no more harassment of my coven by your men.”

Vincent grimaces. “Unfortunate, that. I think your scouts took my men by surprise. But hey, no one’s dead. That’s more than can be said for most gang conflicts.”

Delilah shakes his hand at the end of it, which is supposedly considered an agreement as good as a written document. The gang departs north down the alley, and your group heads the opposite direction, back towards the Flooded District.

“Do you trust him?” you whisper to Delilah.

She shakes her head. “Not in the slightest. They’ll likely turn on us the first chance they get, and we have to be prepared for that.”

“But this is the only way to prevent further violence for now?”

“Exactly.” She ducks her head closer to yours. “Thanks for coming. You saw the kind of muscle Vincent brought. I’m glad to have had you here, just in case.”

Your hand finds hers, for a brief moment.

~

And more women come, from across the Isles. More than you’d ever imagined. Single women and mothers. Young women and old women. Tattooed women with sharp eyes. Women who speak with strange accents and women who scarcely speak at all. Women seeking refuge and women looking to conquer fresh land. Women their own women. Freed women.

You take on a Morleyan insurrectionist who fled all the way from Arran. She is haunted, her eyepatch a dark hollow in her face. Brunhilde brings her tea, which she clutches in scarred hands.

“The Imperial troops busted my cell,” she tells you, in her soft Morleyan brogue. Others are gathered around, to listen to her story. “There was a secret exit we had built in the basement. I was printing pamphlets down there when they kicked in the door. I made it out. As far as I know, no one else did.”

She pulls her denim jacket tighter around herself. “I hid in storehouses and the bellies of docked ships. They were doing roundups of us every day, checking door-to-door. Citizens couldn’t hide us anymore. Soon after I heard Delilah’s call and managed to stow away here.”

“But I have faith in my countrymen,” she says. “One day I’ll go home and all of Morley will stand by my side, and there’ll be no more fear.”

A month later, a tall, silent woman appears on your doorstep. She communicates only with Delilah at first, who informs you that she has arrived from the Baleton area. In private, you prod Delilah for more information, only to be denied.

“She’ll tell you when she’s ready,” you’re told. Delilah turns out to be right.

A month after her arrival, the woman finally speaks.

“I made a mistake. Told my older sisters I was leaving,” she says in a voice cracked from disuse, after giving a few details of her life on the farm. “They kept pressing me for more. Wouldn’t believe me when I said I just wanted to start over somewhere new. They asked me if it was a man. I said no. Then they asked if I was in trouble with the law. Told ‘em no. They found the notes I’d been keeping on the dreams and confronted me.”

A steadying hand is placed on her shoulder. She doesn’t dislodge it.

“They got angry when I tried to explain the voice I heard. Locked me in the barn. I heard them talking outside about what to do with me. They were going to turn me in to the Overseers,” she chokes out. “They’ve got a big presence in my village. Lots of influence.”

A long pause.

“When they came in to bring me to the Overseers, I went at them with a grass hook. It was self-defense. I only meant to get them off me. But I killed them instead.”

She gulps.

“You’ve been so good to me. My new sisters. I swear I’ll protect you, same as you’ve done.”

~

A sickness arrives in Dunwall.

It exists at first only in rumors and whispered word-of-mouth reports. Initially it is dismissed as an urban myth. No other isles have sent word of this illness, and it seems unlikely that it would just spring up in the city out of nowhere. This isn’t Pandyssia, after all.

But the rumors continue to grow. A dock worker says he saw an emaciated man coughing up blood under a bridge, his skin blackened and rotting. A homeless woman came upon a cluster of bodies in the sewers, their shirts spotted with old gore. Most disturbing of all are the tales of bleeding from the eyes, supposedly a late-stage symptom of the disease.

The city doesn’t change all at once, of course.

First there are small-scale quarantines in the slums, where the disease seems to be centered. Buildings are closed off and scheduled for demolition, for reasons unclear. A few articles appear in the papers discussing the disease- the “Rat Plague”, it’s called, named for its purported method of transmission. Overall, most people don’t seem to concerned. “It’ll pass quickly,” it’s said, or “They’ll find a cure soon.”

But there is no cure. And the plague doesn’t disappear.

Sightings of late-stage disease victims become more common as they mindlessly wander the streets. Another crude term surfaces to name them- “weepers”. Their faces are streaked constantly with the blood that flows from their eyes. Coven scouts bring back reports of them almost daily. They are animalistic, hollow shells of their former selves.

A group of witches goes to Delilah, fearful of the coven’s proximity to the infected. She makes an announcement of what she’d theorized in private to you: your magic protects you from disease, including the Rat Plague. The women discuss the matter amongst themselves. When was the last time any of you had so much as a cold? Certainly there have been injuries, but can anyone claim to have been ill since they joined the coven? A consensus: Delilah must be correct.

Yet though you are protected from the danger itself, you still suffer its effects. More Watch guards are dispatched across the city, their shifts extended. Worse, Overseers are sent in from Whitecliff to investigate a religious significance to the disease. This is of course a lie; their true purpose is to assist the Watch in keeping the disease confined to the slums. They’re trained in combat after all, and you as witches know that this disease was not sent by the one you worship, or any other force for that matter. Delilah claims to have confirmed this with the Outsider himself.

The gangs grow more aggressive. Territory not afflicted with the plague is becoming harder and harder to find. The Hatters battle the Dead Eels, while the Bottle Street Gang does their best to profit off the crisis. The coven’s scouts must work ever-harder to stay out of the fray.

Inevitably, the conflict is brought to your doorstep.

Tilda comes tumbling through the window one evening, as the coven is gearing up for supper. She springs to her feet, eyes wild and full of fear.

“Tilda,” someone starts, “what’s going on?”

“We have to leave,” Tilda’s rambling. “We have to leave now!”

“Slow down, just tell us what’s-“

“Overseers,” says Tilda, “dozens of them. They’re coming for us, they know where we are. They already got Sophia.”

There’s a chorus of gasps. Delilah is suddenly on the scene, approaching Tilda.

“How many did you say were coming?” she asks.

Tilda’s breathing hard, obviously on the verge of panic. “At least twenty-five, maybe over thirty. Some of them are armed with those awful music boxes. They’ll be able to nullify our powers.”

Delilah’s silent a moment, calculating.

“We can’t fight them,” she says at last. “Not without incurring heavy casualties.” She turns to the group, where you await a command.

“Pack up your things and meet me back here in ten minutes,” she says, raising her voice. “We’ll take the sewers to a safe location. Leave anything that isn’t absolutely necessary.”

A mad scramble immediately follows. Some witches Blink into each other, knocking others over in their rush to empty their rooms. You follow Delilah back to the room you share with her.

She paces around as you pack up your belongings, obviously more distressed than she’d let on downstairs.

“How did they find us?” she hisses, seemingly to herself. “Who the hell tipped them off?”

You’re as upset as she is, but at least one of you needs to keep a clear head.

“It’s alright,” you find yourself saying, “we’ve moved before. We’ll have time to make it out.”

Delilah’s shaking her head, pressing her fingers to her temples.

“If Tilda hadn’t made it back,” she says, “we’d all be sitting ducks.”

“But she did, and we’re not. Grab your brushes, love.” You toss her a bound set of paintbrushes.

It’s not until the manor is cleared and the coven is escaping through the back door that she seems to calm.

“Thank you, Breanna,” she murmurs to you. “I can always count on you to keep me steady.”

Quickly and quietly, the group of over twenty women passes through the knee-deep waters behind the manor and into the waiting maw of the city sewers.

You look over your shoulder one last time before descending at the now-distant form of the manor. The group of Overseers have reached it, and you can hear their raised voices from this distance as they gather around its base.

They’ve set the building ablaze.


	10. Chapter 10

“Witchcraft is a myth, which drawing on the past, clothes itself in the symbols of (its) time. Witchcraft does not mistake myths for history, it harnesses them to transform the future. Witchcraft knows the ground upon which it stands.”

                             - _The Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

Delilah ushers the women through the sewers, keeping to the upper levels. Certain areas are flooded completely, making navigation difficult. A few of the witches are holding back tears. After a quick head count, everyone is accounted for, save for Sophia.

Tilda tells her story as the group follows Delilah through the sewers.

“We were walking back to the apartment by Broad Street,” she’s saying, “just about to fix dinner. I heard this commotion behind us. I looked back and saw the first of the Overseers rounding the corner. We started walking faster, but he yelled for us to stop. We broke out running.”

“What happened to Sophia?”

“One of them shot her before she could Blink away. I saw it happen.” Tilda then falls silent and speaks no further on the matter.

“Where are we going?” you ask Delilah.

“There’s a warehouse that can accommodate us for the time being,” she says. “We’ll be safe there.”

Soon, she comes to a halt, and the group stops as well.

“Shit,” Delilah murmurs. Her eyes are distant, and you can tell she’s using the Void Gaze.

“There’s a small squad of Overseers past the fork,” she says, addressing the group. A concerned murmur goes up and is quickly hushed to silence.

“There’s only five of them,” Delilah continues, “and they’re on the lower level. One of them has a music box, so we’ll have to take them out the old-fashioned way. Who’s up for the job?”

The past few months have seen you improving your combat skills with Delilah and training the other women, to the point where you now feel confident with a blade in your hand. You step forward, along with Tilda, Amelia, and Kai.

“I’ll take out the one with the music box,” says Delilah. “The rest of you, wait here. We risk attracting their attention if we all try to go at once. Only join us if you hear trouble.”

Delilah leads you to a concrete outcropping over the central area where the Overseers patrol. Several tunnels intersect here to form a high, dome-topped room. Ivy and moss cover the walls almost completely.

Below you, four Overseers are patrolling separate corners of the room. The one armed with the music box stands on a small bridge over the aqueduct that cuts through the floor. The box produces a teeth-grindingly awful noise that stands your hairs on end and interrupts your connection to magic in a way you’ve never experienced before. You feel robbed of something essential.

Delilah indicates that the four of you should position yourselves over the men below. When you’re arranged around the concrete lip, she holds up a hand in a ‘wait’ motion. You watch her remove a knife from her belt and begin climbing down to the floor, dangling from outcroppings in the stone walls. The shadows at this end of the room conceal her well enough that the Overseers don’t seem to take notice of her.

That is, until she drops to the ground and sprints for the man carrying the music box.

“Hey!” the man below you shouts, before you push off from the concrete and drop yourself on his shoulders.

A gunshot rings out. You duck, pinning the Overseer to the ground. The horrid music cuts off sharply with a splash; you raise your head just in time to see Delilah’s target topple into the aqueduct, her small knife sticking out from his throat.

Quickly, you drive your own knife through the prone back of the man you’d landed on, silencing his cries. Amelia struggles with her mark, but Delilah traps him with a cluster of vines, allowing her to slit his throat. Once more, all falls quiet. You do a quick check of your surroundings with Void Gaze and find no more Overseers.

“It’s clear!” Delilah calls, and the coven comes to join you, stepping casually over the bodies.

Out of curiosity, you walk over to the bridge where the Overseer had fallen. His body floats in the shallow water below. The music box lies partially submerged and damaged from the fall. When you go to retrieve it, it does not resume its strident tune even when removed from the water. It’s intricately made, with a series of gold keys and a revolving cylinder studded with teeth that prick the keys, creating the music.

A few of your coven-sisters call out to you as you turn it over in your hands.

“Ugh, put that thing back, Breanna!”

“Hey, don’t bring it along!”

You resume your journey by Delilah’s side, holding the damaged music box to your chest.

“Whatever do you want that thing for?” Delilah asks, a bemused tone to her voice.

“I’d like to study it,” you reply. “I want to find out if there’s a long-range way of disabling them, as well as how they work.”

She gives you a slow, genuine smile.

“In that case, who am I to stop Sokolov’s newest competition?”

You laugh at that. The sound bounces off the walls of the sewer, echoing into the distance.

~

The warehouse isn’t anywhere near luxury, but it’ll do. The move-in is somber at first, but by the next evening the coven is back to its usual self. The witches begin to practice their magic on the ground floor and scrawl occult symbols in the storage rooms. Offices become bedrooms, a break room becomes a kitchen, and an attic space becomes Delilah’s workshop.

You shift your mattress next to hers, watching Delilah set up her easel for her next painting.

“I know who did this,” she says to you, without prelude. “Naria said that one of the Parliament Street boys had been tailing her back to the manor. She tried to throw him off, but he kept coming back. Now we know why.”

“So the Cutters tipped off the Overseers? Even after we made that agreement with them?”

Delilah sighs. “No honor among thieves. I never trusted them to keep their word with regard to the territory. I just didn’t think they’d go so far as to notify the Overseers. And at a time like this…”

“What do you think prompted them?”

“They’ve wanted us gone for a long time. But recently, one of our sisters had a little…run-in with one of their boys. She ended up killing him. If they found the body and traced it back to us, that would’ve given them the excuse they needed to come after us.”

The news stuns you. “I didn’t know about any of this. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I- I don’t know. I didn’t want her to feel like she was responsible for this.”

You slump against the cold wall. “We get chased out of every home we find. It’s inevitable at this point.”

“Not for long. We’re going to make those Cutter bastards pay,” she growls, uncharacteristically vicious.

“For Sophia, you mean?” She’d been one of the coven’s better scouts.

“For all of us.”

You head downstairs for the evening, where you find Francesca eagerly setting up her hookah for the night. Smoking together has become a bonding ritual of sorts in the coven. Tonight, she’s packing the bowl with white leaf.

“Really?” you ask her, eyeing the drug in her hands. “I think everyone’s a little on edge after the evacuation.”

“Exactly!” she says, beaming up at you. “But now we’re safe, and I’d like to see my sisters relax again. Will you be joining us?”

You hesitate to accept; smoking isn’t really your thing, and it tends to leave a bad taste in your mouth. But Delilah is being cryptic and withdrawn again, and it’s not as though you have much else to do.

“Sure,” you tell her.

Soon, the room is filled with a dozen women, reclining on cushions and passing the mouthpiece of the hookah around. Several conversations are going on at the same time, and like this, the warehouse almost feels cozy, like a real home. You take a puff of smoke on the first round and pass it to Evie on your left.

To your surprise, Delilah joins the group after about ten minutes.

“I thought you were painting tonight,” you tell her as she settles between you and Evie.

“Can’t focus,” she murmurs back. “Too angry.” Her posture is tense and drawn.

You pass her the mouthpiece, which she hesitatingly takes. “Smoke with us, then. Maybe you’ll get some artistic inspiration.”

The effects of the leaf begin to set in after perhaps half an hour. Time seems to slow. The room spins before your eyes, so you close them for a while. Someone is playing guitar. You’re glad, in an abstract way, that she was able to bring it from the Flooded District. The music washes over you in waves. Someone is singing along,

[ _How will I know, oh_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02hHRnfh6SY)

[ _How will I know_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02hHRnfh6SY)

Voices blur. Conversations mix. Delilah is murmuring to you, something about how you looked while taking down that Overseer. Her words should disturb you. Instead, you giggle and lean in closer, resting your head on her shoulder. Your lips move to form the words of the song that’s playing. Your head buzzes. Sensation is delayed. You tap your fingers against the concrete floor and feel its rough texture after you’ve lifted your finger from its surface. Delilah’s hand rests against your back, tracing warmth wherever it passes.

Eventually, you retire to the room you share with her when the feeling of her fingertips on your inner thigh becomes too distracting. On the mattress, you slide your hand up her side, underneath her loose shirt, to touch the soft skin there. In slow-motion you kiss her. Nothing but skin separates you now and the feeling comes in waves, pulling you along in the undertow. Surface, breathe, dive back under. Your hand travels lower and you watch her face, her fluttering eyelids, the warm puff of her breath against your lips, and you’re so close to her, and your chest is full to bursting, and the pleasure rises and crests-

And, and, and.

After, when you’ve thrown a blanket over your tangled bodies and made a pillow of your arm for Delilah’s head, she breaks the silence.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” she whispers. “Something I’ve told no one.”

You think back to that night on the roof, with the cheap wine. “Another secret?”

“Because I trust you more than anyone else.” She leans her forehead against hers.

“Remember what I told you about my mother?”

“Of course. You said she was a kitchen maid, and that she died in prison.”

“I never mentioned my father.”

“I assumed he wasn’t in the picture.”

“In a way.” She closes her eyes for a moment.

“My father was Emperor Euhorn Kaldwin.”

Whatever you’d been expecting, this wasn’t it. It occurs to you, for a shameful moment, that Delilah might be lying. But why would she? What reason would she have to lie, when there’s nothing at stake between the two of you?

“The kitchen we worked in was in Dunwall Tower. I told you I had no siblings, which wasn’t entirely true. I had my half-sister Jessamine. We used to play together when we were young.”

You’re putting the pieces together now. “But the Empress is thirty now. You’re…thirty-one, aren’t you?”

Delilah nods. “I was born a year before Jessamine.”

It hits you now, the importance of this piece of information. “You’re the rightful heir to the throne!”

“My father didn’t see it that way. We were cast out when Jessamine blamed the breaking of some expensive trinket on me. Now I know it was an excuse to get me out of Dunwall Tower and distance me from any claim to the throne.”

It makes sense, in a twisted way.

“Why tell me this?” you ask her. “Just so I’ll know?”

She looks you in the eyes now, her gaze remarkably clear despite the effects of the leaf.

“I want that throne,” she says, voice intense. “It belongs to me. And I can get it, if I play my cards right.”

“What do you mean?” Through the haze of the drug, you’re beginning to worry about what she’s saying.

“I’ll tell you,” she says, “when I know it can be done.”

“What about the coven?”

“You’ll all be by my side,” she answers as if it were obvious, sinking back against the mattress. “You’ll be helping me create a new empire. The world as it should be.”

~

Revenge is discussed the next morning.

Your coven-sisters have been determining how best to strike back at the Cutters for their betrayal. Those close to Sophia sound especially bloodthirsty. They bring their case to Delilah, pleading to be allowed to fight. She agrees.

A meeting is set up between the top-ranking Cutters and representatives of the coven. Delilah selects a squad of seven women, herself included. You are among them.

The idea is to assassinate the Cutters present to send a message to the rest of the gang. Even if they want to hit back, their most effective members will be dead, and Delilah’s ensured that no one knows the coven’s new location. If all goes as planned, you’ll not only be free of the Cutters, but of any other gang that hears of the slaughter.

The plan is a little bold for your taste, but if Delilah thinks it can be done, you’re inclined to believe her. You’ve taken down Overseers before; a gangster shouldn’t be too different. And so, as the time of the meeting approaches, you leave the warehouse with the group and make your way into central Dunwall for the first time in months.

What you see shocks you to the core.

Plastered on every signpost are posters giving updates on the Rat Plague, listing quarantined areas and detailing how best to protect oneself. Advertisements for Sokolov’s Elixir and Piero’s Remedy line the streets. Nearly other door is blocked by a metal gate, closed for quarantine. Gone is the bustle and sound of the old city. The plague has emptied the streets.

You see an arm hanging out of a nearby dumpster. It is bloodless and still.

If the apocalypse were happening around you, would you notice? If it moved slow and gradual like the creep of rot, would you recognize it still?

How many are dead, you wonder? How far has the plague spread? Are the shores of Serkonos untouched? Has famine-struck Morley fallen yet?

When all else is silent, the scuttling of rats fills the air. The immunity granted by your magic allows you to see the worst of the city when the rest of its citizens hide and pray. The stench of sickness emanates from the windows above and the sewers below, inescapable.

 _How can this city ever recover_ , you think to yourself. _The Dunwall I knew is gone, faded and skeletal. Shades of its former glory._

Delilah leads the six of you up the side of a building and back to the roof, once the buildings grow closer together.

“It’s difficult to comprehend, isn’t it?” she says quietly. “The plague has changed this city.”

“It’s unrecognizable.”

She shakes her head slowly. “Gangs like the Cutters are taking advantage of it, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why they called the Overseers on us. Use the paranoia of the Abbey against us and pick up our territory the moment we scatter.”

“They won’t be a problem much longer.” Your blood sings for revenge with a fury you haven’t felt in a long time.

Suddenly, she stops, and the group halts with her.

“The meeting place is just a few buildings ahead now,” she says, walking to the edge of the roof. Her gaze changes; she’s using the Void Gaze to spot the Cutters.

“Oh,” she breathes, lips curling up in a crooked smile. “oh, they think they’re clever.” She turns back to the group, which eagerly awaits her instructions.

“They’ve set an ambush for us,” says Delilah. “Four men are on the second floor of that building, ready to drop on us as soon as their leader gives the command.”

Kai grins. “Not if we get ‘em first.”

“Exactly. Kai, Tabitha, Naria, and Melina, you’ll take them out as silently as you can. Blink behind them and make sure you don’t alert the others.” The addressed women nod, determination burning on all their faces. “Breanna, Brunhilde, and I will go to meet the leader and his men as though we suspect nothing. Join us if they attack.” She pauses. “Which they most likely will.”

The coven-sisters take off across the roofs, Melina pausing to give a mock-salute first. You can make out their crouched shapes perched twenty feet above the heads of the unsuspecting men below. However many wait inside, you don’t know.

Delilah turns to you and Brunhilde. “It’s time.”

With the sharp crescent moon hanging in the sky above, you return to street level, leaving the bleak grey roofscape behind. Delilah advances on the nondescript metal door, Brunhilde to her left and you to her right. When she knocks, a slit in the door opens, a beady pair of eyes peering through it.

“They’re here,” a gruff voice calls, and the door swings open to reveal a bald, brawny man. You recall his face; he’d been at that first meeting in the North End.

“Copperspoon and the coven,” a voice calls from behind him, as he glowers at the group of you. “So glad you could make it.”

Delilah follows him into the building. You cautiously follow her. There are four men here: the one who answered the door, and two others flanking a smaller man in the center of the room, who you recognize as Vincent. Higher up, the second floor is obscured by shadow, but you know the other four are waiting above, if your sisters haven’t gotten to them already.

“We need to talk, Vincent,” says Delilah, striding confidently forward to meet the man who must be the Cutter’s leader. “My coven was chased out of the Flooded District by a massive squad of Overseers and Watch guards. There’s only a few people who could have tipped them off.”

Vincent pulls a comically shocked face. “That’s what this is about? Sweetheart, this sort of thing happens all the time.”

“Territory’s quickly lost,” says the man to his left, who’s dressed a little sharper than you would expect of a bodyguard. “I know you guys are new to the game, but surely you didn’t expect to hold onto your land forever. Times are tough,” he adds with a shrug.

Your fingers twitch by your sides. These smug bastards are just asking for it.

Delilah steps forward, lifting her chin. She’s got a height advantage on Vincent, to your delight.

“One of my scouts was killed warning us. We would’ve all been murdered had the other one not gotten away. This wasn’t a simple loss of territory, Vincent. This was an assassination attempt by proxy.”

He throws his head back and laughs. You could strangle this man.

“So dramatic! Though, what did I expect?” He locks eyes with Delilah. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I recently lost one of my own men. Horribly murdered, very violent.”

“I’m aware,” she grits out.

Vincent begins to pace a circle around the group of you. You keep an eye on his two bodyguards, who remain still. “His body turned up by Drawbridge Way, just south of our territory. He’d been stabbed and, by the looks of it, strangled.”

Vincent turns back to face Delilah. “Funny thing about the bruises, though. Usually you get marks around the throat, thumbs by the jugular and fingers wrapping around the sides. Our poor boy Paul, however, just had one massive bruise wrapping around his whole neck. I’d have thought rope at first, but rope’s not that thick.”

“What are you implying?” Delilah hisses.

“I think you know,” says Vincent, oozing superiority. “Everyone knows about those vines you witches use, springing up from the earth and disappearing after. I gotta hand it to you, it’s clever. Doesn’t leave a trace behind. But I know better.”

“If one of your men is dead by a witch’s hand,” says Delilah, “then it was most likely in self-defense. Your boys have long disregarded the territory boundaries that _you_ agreed upon. If his body was found outside of your land, then he has only himself to blame.”

“Well, that’s the problem,” says Vincent. He cocks his head and looks at Delilah. “That territory agreement, in my opinion, is long outdated. It was made before the days of the plague, and frankly, it’s not very favorable to us Cutters.”

“Spare me the regret,” Delilah spits. “You should’ve brought up your _concerns_ a year ago. None of this justifies tipping off the damn Overseers.”

“I think it does,” says Vincent. Behind you, the man who’d opened the door approaches, his footsteps heavy on the concrete floor. You tense up, magic flowing heady through your veins.

“You witches,” Vincent continues, addressing all three of you, “have been a curse on this city too long. Always pushing, trying to expand your territory. Shoving your little noses where they don’t belong. They say all your power comes from Copperspoon here, so it shouldn’t be hard to clear out the trash once she’s out of the picture. So here’s my new treaty.”

The bodyguards step closer to Vincent as you and Brunhilde reach for your blades.

“I get all your territory, and you die. Now!” he shouts, stepping backward and reaching for his pistol.

Nothing happens.

Delilah bursts out laughing, her triumphant cackle filling the room.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “was that supposed to impress me? How disappointing.”

Right on cue, the decapitated bodies of four men tumble down from above, their heads bouncing behind them. Vincent goes white as a sheet, mouth gaping.

“Wh- what?” he stutters. From above, Kai shrieks with laughter.

Behind you, footsteps sound out, far too close. You dive out of the way just in time as the man behind you brings down a massive cleaver. It hits the ground just where you’d been standing.

“Now, sisters!” Delilah shouts. The bodyguards lunge at her, but she disappears and reappears behind Vincent.

From there, you lose track of the scene. Everything happens too quickly, so you focus on one opponent. Your coven-sisters are suddenly on the first floor with you as you face off against the cleaver-wielding brute.

He swings at you, first to the left, then down and to the right. The cleaver is massive and cruel. You step backwards and Blink several feet backwards.

Brunhilde, seeing your struggle, howls a blast of wind at the man, and he staggers back. You stretch out your hand and wrap his stumbling feet in vines. He crashes to the ground. Dashing forward, you ready a disarming strike with your blade. He snarls and takes a swing at you as you approach, which you avoid with a well-timed Blink. You respond by bringing down your blade where his arm joins his torso.

Blood, hot and salty, sprays from the wound as the man screams. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Brunhilde, knife drawn, watching your back as you finish this one off. The room is filled with the sound of metal meeting metal and the cries of men. You step on the man’s arm, immobilizing his weapon as you crouch over him and drag your knife through the flesh of his throat. Blood blooms from the wound, spreading and pooling around his body as his struggles cease.

You straighten up, breathing hard. There’s a persistent ringing in your ears, and your hands tremble by your sides. When you turn around, Delilah has one of the bodyguards up against the wall, her knife to his throat. The bodies of the other two men, plus the four decapitated ones, litter the floor. You step over Vincent’s body, still and unseeing, punctured by a number of thorny branches, as you approach Delilah. The gang leader’s mouth is open, pierced through by a wooden tendril, his eyes wide and unseeing.

The man Delilah has pinned is weeping.

“Please,” he’s begging, “please don’t kill me, I swear we’ll never bother you again-“

“Enough talking,” says Delilah, pressing her knife a little harder against his throat, and he falls quiet, still sobbing softly.

“I’ll let you go,” says Delilah, to your surprise. The man’s eyes widen, and he starts babbling some kind of thanks before Delilah cuts him off.

“So you can run back to your pathetic excuse of a gang and tell them what happened here,” she continues. “Tell them that this is what happens when you fuck with witches.”

She turns on her heel and leaves. Tabitha spits at his feet as she goes. Shell-shocked, you follow them out. All seven of you survived the encounter. You realize that you hadn’t fully expected that outcome.

After the encounter, no gang threatens the coven ever again.

~

Soon after the incident with the Parliament Street Cutters, the coven receives word of a recently vacated mansion upriver, in the Mutcherhaven District. The city is becoming too dangerous to remain in; most gangs have been decimated by the plague at this point, and Delilah seems to have decided that territory is no longer the most important thing, to your consternation. A boat is hired to take the coven out of Dunwall and into a new home.

You have to admit, upon seeing it, that Brigmore is perfect for the coven’s needs. From a tactical standpoint, there’s only one way into the estate, which means you’ll see potential ambushes coming from literally miles away. The house itself is run-down, to say the least, but traces of its former luxury remain. The place was never looted, unlike your previous homes. Trees and water surround the estate, a stark contrast to the grey industrial skylines of Dunwall. Partially broken iron fences emerge from the flooded grounds.

The coven is thrilled by their new home. The women immediately set about making it their own. Vines are grown around the house, filling in holes and bridging gaps. Several Blood Briars are placed around the building. Bedrooms are assembled, the kitchen is revived- even the hookah is set up in the attic, close to a room that Delilah reserves for her paintings. A number of gravehounds patrol the area at all times.

Delilah has been working on a commission for a rich noble in her spare time. Some barrister, infamous for his underhanded techniques. She visits him weekly to work on the painting and is usually gone for the whole day. The pay is good- more than good, really- but she seems unusually enthusiastic about the project. You’d be jealous if you hadn’t seen her preliminary sketches of the man. Ugly and old, he is definitively not her type.

One day, she ushers you into her studio, eager to show you the completed commission. You notice that she’s taken to weaving the flowers she grows with magic into her clothing, lacing vines and stems down her arms. Many of the other women have adopted the trend, unabashedly marking themselves as witches. Your own clothes, however, remain unadorned.

“It’s lovely,” you tell Delilah, eyeing the commission. The man himself is nothing to look at, but Delilah’s rendered him in swirls of bright colors, a glowing cigar in his hand. “You’ve done an excellent job with it. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

“Well, thank you,” she says, “but there’s more to it than just the painting.”

She turns to you, eyes bright and fervent. “Ever since the beginning, when I was first Marked, I’ve been looking for a way to combine my art and magic. A method has evaded me for a long time, but I think I’ve finally figured it out.”

She’s pacing across the room as you listen, wondering where this could go. “Magic is all about imposing your will on something, to bend it into the shape you prefer. Void Gaze forces the walls to yield to you and cease to be obstacles. Blink makes the very atoms of your body subject to your will, to transport them somewhere else.”

She continues. “I thought, if this were the case with plants and even animals…why not people?”

“You want to impose your will on people?”

“To influence them, yes, that was initially the idea. But I needed a more powerful kind of magic.” She traces a finger along the edge of the canvas. “So I tried to imbue my paintings with magic. Timsh here turned out to be the perfect test subject. The more time I spent painting in his presence, the more I could connect the painting to his physical being.”

“And this resulted in- what?”

“Possession.” Her eyes gleam. “True possession. I walked in his _skin_ , Breanna, I could see through his eyes. It took practice, yes, but-“

“Hold on.” You close your eyes for a moment, trying to process this revelation. “You possessed this Timsh man by making a painting of him?”

“Well, it’s more complicated than that. There were certain things I needed- hairs from his head, for instance, to make my brushes. The closer the physical bond, the more effective the possession.”

“What was the _point_ of this?” You’re having a hard time following Delilah’s train of thought, when once you could practically finish her sentences for her.

Her brow furrows. “Don’t you see, Breanna? I thought you would have put it together by now. Timsh was just a test run. By possessing him, I was able to make myself the sole benefactor of his mother’s will. And that’s just coin, Breanna. Think of the influence we’ll have if we can possess other nobles. We could legalize witchcraft, secure ourselves a permanent home-“

“This is your plan to make yourself Empress, then.” It’s all falling together now. “Control the Imperial court and somehow oust the Kaldwin heir?”

“Precisely.” Delilah beams. “I wanted you to be the first one to know. I’ll tell the others when the time is right. We’ll need to be careful about our timing, but I truly think this could work.”

“Delilah…” You break off, unsure of how to finish your sentence. Genius has always been said to border madness, and Delilah is certainly the former. “Do you really think this will work?”

“Absolutely.” She takes your hands in hers. “You must think I’m selfish, that I want only to see myself on the throne. But this is the best thing for the coven as well. These women, they’ll never be able to live safely under the current empire. You know best the kind of torment that life can be for a woman in this world, regardless of social class. I want to draw out the poison from this society, Breanna. I want to make this a world worth living in. Do you believe me?”

“I do.” It’s not a lie. Delilah’s motives are difficult to criticize. It’s her methods that have you worried.

She brings the back of your hand to her lips. “I knew I could count on you.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Witchcraft honours the spirits. Witchcraft enchants for the lost. Witchcraft will not forget.”

                             - _The Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

At the weekly coven assembly, the room is abuzz with shocking news: the Empress is dead by her Lord Protector’s hand, the young princess gone missing. When Delilah takes her place at the head of the table, the conversation dies down.

“Before taking any reports, I’d like to share some important news with all of you,” she starts off.

“As I’m certain you’ve all heard by now, Empress Jessamine Kaldwin is dead.” She pauses, as if distracted by a thought, then continues. “The official story is that she was murdered by her Lord Protector, Corvo Attano. This, however, is a lie.”

An audible gasp goes up through the room.

“The man responsible, the only one with both the motivation and the stealth necessary to get so close to the Empress, is none other than our old neighbor in the Flooded District, Daud. He was hired by the current Lord Regent, who has Princess Emily hidden away in the slums of Dunwall.”

The room erupts with chatter, but Delilah holds up a hand to silence the coven.

“How do you know this?” one voice calls out.

“A contact of mine in the Whalers passed on this information to me. I’m telling you all this so that you know the truth.”

The hubbub dies down, and Delilah continues.

“This is a moment of great importance for us. The throne hasn’t been this vulnerable in centuries. Now is our chance to take power.”

“How?” Kai asks. “We’re not an army.”

Delilah casts an assessing eye over the crowd. You watch her with bated breath.

“I have another piece of news to deliver,” she says. “Most of you know that I have been working on a portrait commission for the barrister Arnold Timsh. I worked to imbue the painting with a powerful magic, one that would allow me to exert my influence over him. After a great deal of practice, I succeeded in possessing Arnold Timsh.”

You hear a sharp intake of breath from the woman next to you. Raising an eyebrow, you make a token attempt at appearing shocked.

“I was able to walk in his skin and repress his mind for an extended period of time. While I possessed him, I made myself the benefactor of his mother’s will.” She smiles a small, crooked smile. “That money, of course, will go toward this coven.”

“Think of the possibilities,” she says, leaning forward and meeting the eyes of the women around the table. It’s the same speech she gave you. “Any number of nobles could be manipulated in such a way. We could put ourselves in higher positions of power, erase the stigma that surrounds us and our magic. We could choose any target- the High Overseer, the Lord Regent-“

“The Princess Kaldwin,” you murmur. Delilah glances sharply over at you.

“Yes,” she says slowly, “even the future Empress could be under our control.”

The rest of the meeting continues; Tamina and Naria give their reports of the goings-on in the city. The plague shows no signs of slowing. Bodies are being dumped by the hundreds into the Flooded District, where disease rises and spreads.

“The streets are crawling with the Watch,” says Tamina, “and the Lord Regent’s given new authority to the Overseers. If you have to go into Dunwall, stick to the roofs or, preferably, the sewers.”

Afterwards, you overhear a conversation between a few of the scouts.

“-don’t see why we need to go all the way to Dunwall Tower,” one is saying, “it’s one of the most dangerous places to try and break into.”

“Yeah, but she needs the princess’s hair,” says another. “Where else are we going to get that?”

Avoiding Delilah and the others, you head back up to your room. It’s only here that you can get a moment’s peace and quiet. Your head spins with new information: the Empress’s death, the plague, the new Lord Regent, Delilah’s apparent plans to possess Emily Kaldwin. It’s too much.

And that’s just the political side of things. Your other worries include your increasingly strained relationship with Delilah, who seems to be growing further from you and the others by the day, isolating herself in her studio and speaking to no one for hours on end. It feels inevitable that you will manage to disappoint her somehow.

Instead of dwelling on it all, you reach for the volume you’d been reading before, flipping open to the page where you’d left off. Books have never failed you, after all.

This one focuses on the history of covens in Dunwall. You’ve long been wondering if there are others that exist separately from yours, keeping to themselves. If there was a way to ally with them, you’d gladly pursue it.

What you’ve been reading, however, has troubled you. Every single coven that the author has discussed seems to have met a short, nasty end, usually at the hands of Overseers. The book tracks their rises to power and all the things they did to hold onto it. Yet without fail, each and every coven fell. It doesn’t exactly spell success for your future.

Like clockwork, the cycle continues. You find yourself wondering how it could happen, again and again. After all, the Marked are more powerful than any regular human being. Did the Outsider change his mind? Did he abandon his devotees? What, then, could cause such a betrayal?

You’ve never felt close to him, to Delilah’s god. Briefly, you consider praying to him nightly, to perhaps increase his favor. Perhaps you could scavenge some runes to sweeten the deal.

But prayer and sacrifices didn’t save the witches of history. And it won’t save you.

~

This is how the end begins.

At a coven meeting, Tamina reports having seen a man in a red coat Blinking around Rothwild Slaughterhouse. Daud, the assassin, seems to have been looking for something there. Delilah’s face goes white when Tamina mentions the man’s name.

Melina goes missing. Taken by the Overseers, the rumor goes, while she was reconnoitering around Dunwall Tower.

“What was she doing around there?” someone asks.

“She had, you know, that errand from Delilah,” another woman answers. “She was supposed to get more hairs from the girl’s bedroom.”

Later that week, you’re introduced to a masked woman in a red coat: one of Daud’s Whalers.

“Billie Lurk, his right hand,” says Delilah, with a touch of pride. “She’s been my contact for months now.”

You take an instant dislike to the woman, who treats the coven and everything about it with utter irreverence. She’s far too familiar with Delilah as well.

“Breanna Ashworth,” you introduce yourself shortly. You turn to Delilah. “What’s the purpose of bringing her here?”

“You can talk to me directly,” comes an annoyed voice through the mask. “I’m right here.”

Billie Lurk, as it turns out, has been having a touch of job dissatisfaction. Ever since Daud killed the Empress, she explains, he’s been a different man. This particular mark seems to have troubled him. He’s passing up contracts and spending hours alone in his office. In Billie’s words, he’s getting soft. Billie, predictably, wants him ousted.

“And why are we helping her with this?” you ask Delilah later, in private.

She averts her eyes. “Daud has been looking into the coven. Trying to track down anything related to my name, according to Billie. It’s a bit of a nuisance, so I see no issue with helping to eliminate him.”

“A bit of a nuisance, huh.” Perhaps the understatement of the year, when it comes to having a supernaturally-enhanced master assassin on one’s tail.

You walk into Delilah’s studio one evening to find her staring blank-faced at the opposite wall, frozen in mid-stroke, her paintbrush still touching the canvas.

“Delilah?” She doesn’t respond. You’re about to try and grab her by the shoulders to shake her out of it when she gasps, focus returning to her eyes.

“What the hell was that?”

She jumps. “Breanna! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You were frozen in place for a good minute, maybe more before I came in,” you tell her. Her face is stricken, eyes wide. “What just happened?”

Her expression changes slowly, from fear to pure anger. She sets down her paintbrush hard on the easel. You see that her hands are shaking.

“The _bastard_ ,” she seethes, pacing to the other end of the room. “How _dare_ he!”

“Who are you talking about? Was that- was that the Outsider? Did he just speak to you?”

“Yes,” she growls. “He pulled me into the Void just to gloat.”

“Gloat about what, Delilah?” You’re so tired of always being the last to understand.

“He refuses to help me any further.” Her hands are balled into fists by her side. “He can’t take away my magic, but he won’t speak to me anymore.”

“Why?”

“He thinks I’m too ambitious.” She barks a bitter laugh. “Corvo Attano, his new favorite, is cutting a red path through the city as we speak, but _I’m_ the troublesome one?”

“What else did he say?” Your mind is flashing back to what you’d read in that history book: the fall of each and every coven, preceded by abandonment by the Outsider.

She spins to face you, face contorted with fury. “He’s the one who sent Daud after me. Unleashed his pet assassin on me to punish me for my aspirations. That smug, hypocritical son of a bitch!”

Nothing you say can calm her.

Not long after that, Arnold Timsh ends up in Coldridge Prison, after somehow managing to have his property seized. The document detailing his mother’s will goes missing from the scene as well. Daud’s work, of course. That night, you scarcely sleep due to Delilah pacing and muttering for hours on end in her studio. Her distress infects you like a tangible thing. She has blocks of marble delivered to the manor and, after several long days where even you don’t see her, produces a few statues of herself. With your help, she places them around the manor grounds. You understand them to be imbued with some kind of magic.

“Sentinels,” she tells you, her gaze steely. “No one’s getting to the estate without my knowledge.”

Next in the series of disasters comes the Overseer raid on Daud’s base, which you and Delilah had planned so carefully with Billie Lurk. Of course, she betrayed Delilah at the last possible moment, admitting to the conspiracy and refusing to fight Daud.

“One job!” Delilah rants, back at the estate with you. “Her one job was to take care of Daud! All our problems would be solved if she’d just stuck to the fucking plan!” Her tone is edged with palpable despair.

Your own worry becomes increasingly difficult to suppress as you watch Delilah work herself up. She hardly sleeps these days, working frantically on her painting or magic instead. Each night, you reach out to the cold mattress beside you, willing her to return to it. To you. But your will has never been as strong as Delilah’s.

“I’ll just deal with him myself,” she’s muttering now. “I shouldn’t have relied on anyone else.”

You want to tell her that she can rely on you. But even now you find yourself doubting that.

It all falls apart when you enter her studio one afternoon, with the intent of tempting her away from her work and making her eat something. You haven’t seen her at meals in ages.

“Breanna,” she greets you as you enter, eyes never leaving the painting. “How are you?”

“Doing alright.” Looking over her shoulder, you recognize the young Emily Kaldwin taking shape on her canvas. Scattered across the ground and pinned to the walls are sketches for the painting, depicting the princess from a variety of angles.

“You’re still working on this portrait, then?”

She nods jerkily, dipping her brush in a smear of yellow paint. “It’s imperative that I finish this before she is returned to the throne.”

“I don’t see why,” you tell her, edging closer. “It’s not as though she’ll be making any important decisions until she’s older.” Hopefully you can tempt her downstairs with the promise of rabbit stew.

“They’ll expect her to be changed when she returns,” says Delilah. “What with seeing her mother’s death and the subsequent kidnapping. It’ll make it easier for me when I’m acting as her.”

“But…that will only be for a short time, won’t it? When she’s signing documents and such?”

Delilah sets down her brush and turns to you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you laugh nervously, “you only possessed Timsh for isolated periods of time. You’d only need to act as Emily for however long you were possessing her, right?”

Delilah’s looking at you with surprise and, strangely, pity.

“Breanna, I thought you understood,” she says haltingly. She takes a step closer to you. “When I possess Emily Kaldwin…it will be permanent.”

Your brain isn’t processing what she’s saying. “I don’t understand.”

“Breanna,” she says softly, “the ritual will consume my body. All that I am will be in Emily Kaldwin’s body.”

It clicks, then.

“You didn’t tell me,” you breathe. “You hid this from me.”

“Breanna, I swear-“ she reaches for you, but you pull away- “I thought you understood! All along I had thought you were supportive of this, for the greater good.”

“The greater good?!” You gape at her. “You’re putting yourself in the body of a ten-year-old, and you thought I would have nothing to say about it?”

“It’s the only way, Breanna.”

“Like hell it is!” You’re furious now, at her martyr-like acceptance. “You told me yourself that you have royal blood! Did it never occur to you that you could use that tie to the throne, instead of this madness?”

“And how do you suppose I do that?” she snaps. “March up to Dunwall Tower and tell them I’m their long-lost Empress? This coven is powerful, Breanna, but we can’t host a coup. It’s impossible.”

“I’d rather a coup than this! Did you even _once_ think of how I might feel? How am I supposed to- to-“ You’re choking on your words.

“To _what_?”

“To love you in the body of a child!” you shout, flinging your arms out in exasperation.

Delilah has the decency to at least look ashamed at that. “It…it won’t be so long until-“

“Until she’s an adult, you mean?” You feel sick to your stomach.

“It’ll still be me, Breanna!” Her expression is pleading now. “My personality, my _soul_ will still be there, you won’t be losing me!”

You take a step back towards the door, shaking your head incredulously. “I can’t support this, Delilah. I just can’t.”

“What are you going to do, then? Stop me?”

“I can’t stop you either.” You turn the handle and open the door before meeting her eyes once again. “But I can’t be your lover if this is what you’re planning.”

Her silence is more of an answer than words could ever be.

You shut the door behind you and leave her to her painting. She doesn’t even come after you.

~

The noose tightens.

You receive word that Lizzie Stride, infamous captain of the _Undine_ and leader of the Dead Eels, has been broken out of Coldridge Prison. There’s not too many people who could have pulled that off. That dogged bastard Daud knows where the coven is, then, and has employed her services to take him upriver. What’s in it for him, you wonder? Is he a slave to the will of the Outsider, a weapon to be used by the god? Or is this personal, somehow?

A pair of Overseers are found prowling the Mutcherhaven District on the same day that the _Undine_ left harbor. The scouts capture them under Delilah’s orders and plan to interrogate them as to the movements of their fellow Overseers, as well as those of Daud. The interrogation is handed to Cornella and Tamina, both of whom were close to Melina. They take up their role with relish. When you go to check on them, the first Overseer is freshly dead, and the other is curled up against the wall, weeping.

“That’s what you sons of bitches deserve,” Tamina hisses. She spits in his face. “You and your fellow scum murdered her. I’m only returning the favor.”

“Tamina.”

The two of them turn in surprise.

“Breanna,” Cornella says. “Will you be helping us here?” Her tone is such that one would assume you were helping her bake a cake, or pick out a pair of shoes.

“I’m just here to give you an update,” you tell her. “Delilah’s working on her painting and doesn’t want to be disturbed unless it’s very important. The rest of us are stationed around the estate.”

“He’s coming, then?” says Tamina. You nod. It’s unnecessary to even say his name; there’s only one man that the coven has been discussing lately.

“Get whatever you can out of this one, then take up your positions,” you say.

“We’ll try,” Cornella sighs, “but he’s a tough one. Won’t give up what he knows even when it’s in his best interest.”

As you turn to leave, the Overseer calls out to you.

“Please help me, miss!” he moans. “I’m so hungry, I haven’t eaten all this time.”

Slowly, you turn and look over the scene. The anger you feel towards the whole situation finds a new target in the pathetic, pleading Overseer before you.

You tip your chin in the direction of the corpse beside the living Overseer. “Feed him, then.”

“Feed him- _oh_ ,” says Tamina, her face lighting up.

“Miss? Miss!” the Overseer calls. You shut the door behind you and go to meet Delilah. Even all the way down the hallway, you can hear the man’s panicked shrieks.

She’s gathering up her supplies by the painting of the Void, preparing to step through. When she sees you coming, she stops, setting down the nearly-finished painting of Emily Kaldwin.

There’s a tension between the two of you now, the bittersweet ache of souls about to be separated. Stupidly, you think of a train platform, waving goodbye to Delilah as she speeds away. You wish for nothing more than the early days, when nothing could tear the two of you apart.

“There’s nothing I can say to convince you, is there?” you ask. Sadly, she shakes her head, soft blue gaze fixed on you.

“Not this close to success. I’m sorry, Breanna. I really am. I wish there was another way.” Her words are sincere.

You manage a thin smile. “I guess I’ll be hearing from you in Dunwall Tower next?” It’s the last time you’ll ever see this body. It only feels final now. How foolish you’ve been, to not have appreciated it these past few months. Emily Kaldwin’s eyes are not blue. You’ll never see that exact, clear color again.

Delilah smiles back, equally strained. “I suppose so. I’ve set a scout to come find me a few days after the ritual, so I can send word to all of you here.”

“And if Daud comes?”

Her smile fades. “Keep him away until the ritual is finished. After that, there’s nothing he can do.”

A long silence falls between the two of you.

“I’ll see you soon, Breanna,” she says at last.

Unable to hold back any longer, you take her face in your hands and kiss her, trying so hard to memorize the shape of her lips, the texture of her hair.

“One last time for luck,” you tell her shakily when you part, and she smiles a small, sad smile, just for you.

~

You never even see Daud coming.

Delilah’s entered the Void to work on her masterpiece, hidden within another painting. The lantern necessary to enter it has been stashed away in her room. Once or twice, you’ve been tempted to go retrieve it and find her, to try and talk her out of this once more. But it’s no use.

You’re out by the waterfall instead, pacing back and forth and listening for even the slightest rustle in the bushes. Other witches are stationed around the grounds and inside the manor, along with a number of gravehounds. Yet no one has reported a single sighting of Daud yet. Not one flash of a red coat.

How did it come to this? You trail your fingers through the cool water of the grove. Just one year ago the coven was thriving, afraid of nothing and no one. True freedom was within your grasp, and Delilah was always by your side. Now she hides herself away in a canvas, preparing to steal a child’s body. And what of you? Where will you be when your lover resides in a ten-year-old’s flesh?

When did she slip from your reach, you wonder? When did you stop knowing her as well as you know yourself?

So many questions. The Outsider may be the only one with answers, but he’s abandoned this coven. Who is there left to trust?

You’ve been out here for hours, scarcely leaving this spot. The tension is getting to you. Sooner or later Delilah’s ritual will be complete. It may be a long time before you get to see her face-to-face again.

At that thought, you turn from the grove and start walking towards the manor. Even if you can’t convince her to stop this plan, at least you can resolve that argument from earlier.

Halfway across the yard, you freeze.

The magic is leaving you.

Impossible. It can’t be-

leaching out of you, flowing forth from your veins into the air around you, irretrievable-

You stagger and fall to your knees. Focus. Try to see through that wall. Close your eyes, open them again.

The wall remains solid.

You try to Blink, to reappear over by the door to the manor. Nothing. You’re grasping at thin air.

“No,” you whisper hoarsely. “No!”

Across the yard, you hear loud, panicked voices. Your sisters are crying out in confusion and fear.

It’s not just you, then. Which means-

“Delilah!”

You’re running across the lawn, leaping over a low wall, crashing through the door.

“ _Delilah!_ ”

Where is she, where is she? Is this a product of the ritual? Could it be that she succeeded, but her magic now resides in a new body, without a link to you? Blood thumps in your ears. Your stomach threatens to empty itself.

You can’t feel her anywhere.

Through the halls, up the ramp, and you nearly fall through a hole in the floor after unthinkingly reaching out to Blink across it. Gasping hard for breath, you make your way around it and continue sprinting towards the west wing.

When you reach the room, there’s already a group of women there. The blank canvas still sits in the middle of the room, but the purple lantern has been placed beside it.

“Where’s the portal?” you cry out. All heads turn toward you as you race towards the canvas. You run your hands across it, searching for the entrance that must be there.

“If the lantern’s here, then we should be able to access her…” Nothing, nothing. Only the springy surface of the canvas under your hands, like dead, white skin.

“It was already here, Breanna,” one timid voice says. “We came here as soon as we felt the power leave, but that lantern was already by the canvas.”

You sit there, panting for breath, ears ringing.

“Maybe,” you stammer, “maybe the ritual worked, and she’s too far away now-“

“Breanna,” comes the even voice of Tabitha, “it was Daud.”

Your body, your empty, powerless veins are filled with ice. Slowly, you rise and turn to face the crowd of gathered witches- no, not witches anymore, just women.

There’s tears in Tabitha’s eyes as she speaks.

“People are waking up all over the grounds. They were knocked out, strangled by Daud as he came through.”

“They, they just fainted,” you hear yourself saying distantly. Tabitha shakes her head.

“Breanna, he got to her. He got through our defenses and found Delilah. Breanna, she’s-“

“No.” You can’t accept it. “No, no, no…”

You’re sinking to your knees, and someone’s arms are around you. There’s words being spoken but you can’t hear them. If Delilah is dead then you are too, because she _made_ you, and how can you be anyone without her?

Tabitha is rubbing your back and speaking to you, a comfort through a locked door, fingertips touching in a cellar. You’re trapped in a dark, cold room and the one that you love is gone, gone, gone…

The only warmth you feel is from the tears trailing down your face. You’re making broken, wretched noises and falling apart completely. The pain is too great to bear. Maybe you pass out at one point. It’s difficult to tell.

“Where is he,” you croak out. “Where is Daud?”

“Gone,” is the chorus, “long gone, slipped away on a boat, never even saw him…”

The finished painting of Emily Kaldwin leans against the far wall, replacing the painting of the tree in the Void that had once stood there. You catches pieces of the ongoing conversation around you, too grief-stricken to join them.

“-lever to the crypt was fixed, bastard must’ve found it in the backyard-“

“-did a head count, no one else is dead, can you fucking believe it-“

“-he replaced the painting, then the ritual must have gone wrong-“

“-could be trapped in the Void, as if that’s any different from the regular kind of dead-“

Just when you think you can’t take it anymore, Tabitha steps in.

“Enough!” she shouts. Her voice carries over the rest, and little by little, the room quietens.

“Panicking won’t do us any good,” she says, obviously trying hard to keep her voice steady. “What’s important is that we stick together. We’ll figure out something, whether that’s staying in this manor or moving somewhere else. We can’t let this divide us.”

Night falls, and the room clears as each grieving woman returns to her quarters, to stare at the ceiling for hours or cry herself to sleep. The weight of the question _What now?_ is crushing and oppressive.

For your part, you lie awake in the chambers you share with Deli- shared with her. You flip through her drawings until your heart feels tight to bursting.

In the morning, three women are gone. One of the rowboats in the backyard is missing.

Tabitha implores the group to stay together.

“We have strength in numbers,” she says. “Out there we’re alone.”

Four more are gone the next day.

The women begin breaking off into groups to plan their futures. Vacantly you walk through the halls, overhearing bits of their conversation. One group wants to return to Serkonos. Another is fleeing to Morley. Most seem to want to stay in Gristol but get as far away from Dunwall as they can.

“Who knows if the Lord Regent will even let people leave,” you hear Evie murmuring. “But we don’t have our protection against disease anymore. If the gangs don’t get us, the plague will.”

The two women who’d been on duty in the city apartments appear at the manor’s door, looking for answers. They’d been chased away by opportunistic gangsters who’d already heard of Delilah’s passing. By evening they are gone again, headed back downriver to escape the grief and terror that now hangs over the mansion.

~

Within a week, you are one of the last ones left.

Tabitha’s leaving with a group of five women, including Kai and Naria. The witches who’d been with Delilah the longest are the last to leave.

“Come with us, Breanna,” she begs, taking your face in her hands. “Old Lamprow has jobs in the factories. They’re hiring women, we can start new lives there.”

The others are already preparing the rowboats, ready to set sail down the river and leave Brigmore forever.

You meet her eyes and shake your head slowly.

“Dunwall is my home. I must remain here.”

“Dunwall is full of the plague. There’s nothing here for you but death.”

“I’ll meet what awaits me,” you tell her. Her eyes are glistening with unshed tears.

“At least let us take you back to the city proper,” she says.

“That would be kind of you.”

Your things are already packed. Tabitha brings you out to the last rowboat, where your coven-sisters shuffle to make room for you and your singular bag.

“Is she coming-“ Kai starts, but Tabitha makes a silencing motion with her hand.

The journey back is somber. Everyone in the boat turns their head to watch the Brigmore Estate vanish into the fog behind you. It takes all your strength not to start crying again. There’s some talk of living plans in Old Lamprow, but mostly there is a resigned silence, the silence of soldiers on the retreat.

It feels as though any minute now, someone should jump up and refuse to accept this. There should be researching, studying for any kind of method to return Delilah to you. How can it be that this one thing is beyond your power, when it had once seemed that nothing was impossible?

Near Endoria Street, Tabitha drops you off at a staircase leading out of the river. You sling your bag across your back and step out of the boat, turning to face the women in the boat, who are your sisters no longer.

“Be safe, Breanna,” says Kai, serious for once.

“I hope we’ll meet again someday,” says Heather.

You manage a small smile.

“Best of luck in Old Lamprow,” you tell them. “Take care of each other.”

You watch them row away, back into the fog. The last of your family disappears down the river.

Finding shelter comes first. This area used to be full of civilians, but they’re mostly disappeared, holed up in their apartments, waiting for the city’s curse to lift. Bottle Street is close by, bringing with it the Bottle Street Gang. You duck behind a dumpster when two of their members pass by, announcing their presence with their loud, boisterous voices.

A few others wander the roads, wrapped in rags and woolens. Your aimless wandering doesn’t draw attention; you could be any number of citizens recently made homeless. One trip down an alleyway nearly leads you into a group of weepers, who crouch in a basement stairwell. If you’d had your magic, you would have seen them from all the way down the street. Now, you creep away as silently as you can, trying not to alert them.

The Golden Cat isn’t too far from here. It’s a possibility, should you be unable to find any other kind of work. But you don’t let yourself think of that outcome. That train of thought brings you to thinking of Delilah again, and you can’t handle that.

It’s in your directionless drifting that a familiar shade of purple catches your eye. A symbol of two crossed scythes is painted on a nearby wall.

 _Delilah_ \- but it can’t be. Regardless, you’re drawn to it.

By the painted symbol, there’s a wooden ramp leading up to a first-floor balcony, just like the ones you used to use to climb buildings. Inside, you don’t see any movement.

It’s the only shelter you’ve seen that isn’t squarely in gang territory. With a hasty glance around, you climb the ramp and push yourself over the balcony’s metal railing.

The inside of the apartment is mostly barren, lit by a few sputtering lanterns. Furniture is scattered or broken, pushed against the walls. The stove, however, is lit.

Just as you realize that you’re not alone, a figure appears on the stairs.

“Come in, dearie,” says the old woman, “you’re letting in a draft.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Witchcraft is present, it is ensanguined and vivified. Witchcraft is prescient, it gazes on the future. Witchcraft is oracular, it will not hold its tongue. Our time has come.”

                             - _The Manifesto of Apocalyptic Witchcraft,_ Peter Grey

 

The woman introduces herself as Granny Rags.

“At least that’s what they call me around here, dearie,” she says, leading you down the stairs. “Along with some other names, but those aren’t very nice.”

She appears to be completely blind, if her milky-white eyes are any indication, but she maneuvers her way around the apartment without difficulty. Downstairs, there’s a small hearth, which you crouch next to and warm your hands. To your horror, rats scurry in the corners of the building, but Granny Rags seems completely unconcerned by them.

“What brings you here, then?” she asks, preparing a pot of tea on the battered old stove. “Not many people come out to visit poor Granny Rags these days.”

“I’m just looking for a place to stay,” you tell her. “I’m…lost.”

“Hmm.” She continues to stir her tea silently. You take in her appearance, confident at least that she won’t be able to see you staring. Her clothes carry the appearance of having once been fine quality. Her hair is done up in the style of aristocrats, the way you once wore yours. Your gaze catches on the cloth wrapped around the palm of her left hand.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” you say to her. She doesn’t respond at first. “I can get going now if you like.” You would have never entered if you’d known the place would be occupied.

“Oh, there’s no need for that, dearie,” she says, turning and pressing a cup of tea into your hands. You’re reminded, with a pang of sorrow, of another time, another cup of tea prepared by the one who is now lost to you. Another new life beginning.

“After all,” she says, seating herself across from you on a cushion, “it’s not every day I meet an ex-witch.”

Your jaw drops. Granny Rags barks a laugh.

“Don’t worry, girl,” she says with a conspiratorial wink. “I won’t tattle to the Overseers.”

“How- how did you know?” you stammer. There’s nothing about your appearance that marks you as a witch; you made certain of that before returning to Dunwall.

“Granny knows all sorts of things,” she says in a mock-whisper. “Especially about those Marked by my black-eyed groom.”

“I’m not Marked,” you tell her flatly.

“No, but I can see that you once had magic. My eyes may be gone, but that doesn’t stop me from seeing all sorts of fascinating things.”

Understanding dawns on you. “You’re Marked.” It must be on her covered left hand, just like Delilah’s Mark.

“Mmm, yes.” She sits back on her heels, eyes staring into nothingness above your head. It seems impossible that the decrepit, mad woman before you could have been Marked in the same way that Delilah was.

“But the Outsider is a fickle one,” she says, as though she’d read your mind. “It seems you’ve fallen on bad fortune as well.”

You can’t help but laugh bitterly at that. “Yes, fickle is the right word.”

She looks at you expectantly. You suppose it couldn’t hurt to elaborate. Besides, who else could you talk to about this? All your sisters are gone, and Delilah is- no, stop that.

“My coven leader grew to be very powerful,” you explain. “We called ourselves the Brigmore Witches. Our influence reached across the city. But Deli- my coven leader wanted the throne, and she had a plan to get it. From what I can tell, the Outsider decided she’d become too ambitious. He sent another one of his Marked to…eliminate her.” You rest your face in your hands, exhaustion beginning to hit you.

“Isn’t that always the way?” The old woman chuckles. “Men think they like you when you’re less powerful than they are. Then when you’re stronger than them, they decide you need to be taken down, or locked up somewhere. Tch!”

“He abandoned you too, then?”

She waves an airy hand. “Oh, he’ll come back for me one day. He took my eyes for desiring him, you know. But someday his attention will come back to me. We used to dance on the shores of Pandyssia, back in the good days.” She seems lost in memory.

You spend a few more silent minutes with her, steeling yourself to return to the cold outside. But before you can thank her and leave, Granny Rags speaks again.

“I need some errands run, dearie,” she says. “There were two nice young men who ran them for me before, but they’ve gone and left me. Would you be so kind as to pick up some milk?”

Nervously, you glance out the pane in the door. It’s long since fallen dark outside.

“I’m sorry, but I think all the stores are closed right now,” you tell her.

“Hmph.” She sniffs. “Then I guess you’ll just have to get it tomorrow morning.”

She has you stay the night on a mattress by the window. You fall asleep as she paces the floor below.

You buy her milk the next day with a few coins that she gives you. She finds another chore for you to complete the next day.

A week later, you ask her if she means for you to stay here.

“Stay wherever you like, dearie,” is her response. “As long as you come around to run my errands.”

You take that as a ‘yes’.

~

Life goes on.

The plague continues to ravage Dunwall. The Lord Regent is taken down, after a series of dramatic assassinations and high-profile disappearances that seemed perfectly timed to make him vulnerable. Emily Kaldwin is now on the throne, serving as puppet to a new group of shadowy overlords. How tiresome it all is.

A grey fog settles over you, a despair you haven’t felt since your teenage years. Of course it came back; you never expected it to fully leave. All good things come to an end. The happiness you had with Delilah couldn’t last. Poverty has built you a new cage, nearly as effective as marriage to Thurston would have been.

You take comfort in Granny Rags’ presence, mad as she is. She understands what you had and lost; she knows the bone-deep emptiness you now feel. The two of you have more in common than you’d like to admit. She understands more than you would think.

“The little birdies are sad,” she says for the umpteenth time one night, after feeding the rats that live in the alley behind her apartment. “Just like you.”

You grimace. “I don’t think I’m much like the rats.”

“The birdies, dear. They’re sad like you are.”

“I’m fine.” You turn back to your task of cooking a tin of eels.

“I remember losing my man,” she muses. “Not my husband, that is. I cut him up and made his bones into little charms.”

Sometimes she just says things like this, completely out of the blue. It’s taken some getting used to.

“But my black-eyed groom,” she continues, “I still miss. He hides away from me in the Void. Doesn’t let me visit, no, no.”

“Where is yours?” she asks, when you remain silent. “Six feet under like my poor sweet husband?”

“She’s in the Void too,” you tell her, too tired to lie. “She’s trapped there, where I can’t find her.”

“Ohh, poor dearie,” she hums. “Both our lost loves in that empty expanse, separated from us. Too tragic, that.”

Too tragic, indeed.

You somehow secure a job as an accountant at Rothwild Slaughterhouse under a false last name, the previous accountant having fled the city. You stay with Granny, though, running her errands and shooing off the vagrants that come by. It’s something to do in your free time, at least, other than dwell on the past. Sometimes you open up the books you’ve kept with you all these years and flip through them. They, too, are painful reminders of what was. Every time you come across something interesting, you have to repress the thought of _I must tell Delilah, she’ll laugh at this_.

She’s gone, you tell yourself. You’ll never hear that laugh again.

Granny’s been complaining more and more of the nearby Bottle Street Gang, the members of which continue to give her grievance. She curses them during your dinners with her. Sometimes she grows confused and addresses you as her dead sister.

One day, when you return from your day job, you find her missing.

She’s not in the attic, nor the basement, nor at the Outsider shrine in that corridor by the apartment, which you itch to tear apart. You search the nearby streets and find no trace of her. Even the strange cameo she keeps under her pillow is gone.

At first, you figure she’s just lost track of time somewhere. She’ll turn up eventually, you reason to yourself. The next evening comes and goes, and she doesn’t return.

After a week, you can only assume that she too is dead. Without a body, you can’t even give her the dignity of a proper burial. You’re certain it had something to do with the Bottle Street Gang, but you can’t bring yourself to go to them and ask directly. In all likeliness, they’d just kill you too.

The unfairness of it haunts you. Another witch senselessly murdered, abandoned by the one she worshipped. Her final resting place is probably in some sewer, far below the city. At least Delilah didn’t have to suffer that humiliation. An image of her body, pale and lifeless, surfaces in your mind’s eye, and you nearly sob.

In the end, you can’t bring yourself to take down the Outsider shrine. Time and time again, you find yourself walking to it with every intention of destroying it, wanting to snap the wooden boards over your knee and shatter the purple lanterns. Yet something stops you, every time. Whether it’s the nostalgia of your childhood or some desperate impulse to keep a connection to Delilah, you’re not sure.

You speak to it sometimes. To him, rather.

“Another of your faithful servants is dead,” you tell him one night. “What more do I have to lose?”

Others, “You’re a bloody hypocrite and I hope you know that. Strike me down right now if I’m wrong. Go on, do it.”

You were not struck down, which you feel proves your point. It’s selfish of him, really, when he could grant you death so easily. After all, what is there left to live for? Every door is shut, every escape locked.

Granny Rags kept a number of runes and bone charms around her apartment. You dedicate an evening to retrieving them from their hiding places. After some thought, you stack them on the Outsider shrine.

The sky is pitch-black above you, speckled by only a few stars in the endless void. The city, sick and dying, is nearly silent.

This is your home. The site of all your most important connections, the place where you were born and then born again. Deep in the silt of the river lie whale bones, magic charms, tokens of the god who abandoned you.

You kneel before his shrine now, resting your forehead against the edge of the small table, the purple drapings fluttering slightly.

“Please,” you beg, “please bring her back to me. I know you can. I know she’s in the Void with you. I’ll do anything. Sacrifice anything. Just please…”

The mask of the past few days breaks, and you’re weeping against the shrine, aching with loss. There’s a hole in you, an emptiness that will never be filled, no matter where you go or how hard you try to forget. You can’t even feel angry at the Outsider’s silence now. You had expected it. After all, you’re not interesting enough on your own to attract his attention. You never were.

Grief fades to nothingness fades to sleep. Your dreams are as dull as your waking life these days. Tonight starts off no different.

You’re in a field of grey ash, stretching as far as the eye can see. Some dead trees spot the landscape. In places, the earth is cracked, and the resulting crevasses stretch downward into the hollow core of the world. Deep in the ground, something booms out, a deep percussion.

Light flashes in the distance, crackling through the limitless darkness. You walk through the landscape. What else can you do?

The low sounds from the earth are growing louder, but there’s something else, too. Another sound, calling you from up ahead. You break out into a run.

The light flashes again, blindingly bright. You hear it then, shattering the silence that follows.

A beloved voice speaks your name.

 _Breanna_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's it! I'm already planning a sequel for this, so stay tuned if you enjoyed it.  
> Thanks to Mountain Man, Marine Girls, Beach House, and Bohren & der Club of Gore for being hugely inspirational to this fic. Check them out if you're looking for an audio track of sorts to the story.


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